THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 


THE 

SONS  0'  GORMAG 

AN'  TALES  OF  OTHER  MEN'S  SONS 

BY 

ALDIS   DUNBAR 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BT 
3.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO. 


All  Right*  Retried 


Print**  l»  the  U**td  Stain  if 


TO 

THE  LADS  0'  ME  HEART 


2061033 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTZB 

I.  THE  CONSTANT  GREEN  JERKIN     ...  1 

II.  THE  HARVESTIN'  o'  DERMOND      ...  21 

III.  EIVEEN  COLD-HEART 41 

IV.  THE  QUESTIN'  o'  CLEENA       ....  55 
V.  ETHLENN  o'  THE  MIST 68 

VI.  WILD  APPLES  AN'  GOLDEN  GRAIN       .      .    80 

VII.  KING  DIARMID  AN'  P6L 94 

VIII.  FAIR  AILINN 106 

IX.  THE  SERVIN'  o'  CULAIN 120 

X.  How  CORMAC  LOST  HIS  KINGDOM       .      .  134 

XI.  WIND  AN'  WAVE  AN'  WANDHERIN  FLAME    .  151 

XII.  GRAINNE  THE  HAUGHTY 165 

XIII.  LIGHT  o'  ME  EYES 181 

XIV.  CONN  THE  BOASTER 200 

XV.  THE  KING  o'  THE  THREE  WINDS  .  212 


vii 


THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 


Sure,  day  in  an'  day  out,  'tis  beatin'  me  poor 
weary  brains  I  am;  for  no  sooner  am  I  afther 
hearin'  the  pattherin'  o'  feet  comin'  toward  me 
than  'tis  up  an'  hide,  or  tell  a  tale  o'  heroes  in 
times  past.  When  an'  ever  the  day  'II  come  for 
them  to  tire  is  more  nor  mortal  man,  let  alone 
one  workin'  in  this  garden,  can  be  afther  gues- 
sin'.  'Twill  be  a  restful  day,  that,  when  the 
masther  packs  the  whole  armful  o'  them  off  to 
school. 

Whist,  now!  What's  thatf  Ah-h,  now,  the 
swate  voices  o'  them  laughin'  among  the  bushes. 
Sure,  'tis  meself  is  caught  entirely. 


THE  SONS   O'  CORMAC 


THE  CONSTANT  GBEEN  JEEKIN 

["A  story  is  it?  An'  the  grass  a-perishin'  for 
the  want  o'  watherin'  this  very  evenin'I 
Well,  have  yer  will,  an'  tell  the  masther 
yerselves  what  was  afther  hindherin'  me 
from  me  work."] 

'TWAS  back  o'  the  years,  in  the  days  when  the 
Little  People  were  a  power  in  the  land,  an'  there 
was  fightin'  a  plenty  with  the  Danes  an'  their 
like — that  Cormac  without  a  Kingdom  lived  by 
the  Lough  o'  the  Eagle  with  his  three  sons. 

Now  these  were  Dermond  o'  the  Bow,  an' 
Eiveen  the  Swift — an'  the  youngest  of  all,  that 
was  Conan  o'  the  Long  Arms;  an'  some  called 
this  last  Conan  the  Singer,  for  he  had  skill  in 


a  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

singin'  more  than  any  man  on  the  shores  o* 
Moyle,  an*  the  birds  came  an'  sat  on  the  trees 
to  listen  when  he  played  the  harp. 

I  tell  ye,  Dennond  o'  the  Bow  was  great  at 
the  hunting  an'  eould  send  his  long  arrows 
across  the  Lough  o'  the  Eagle,  an'  strike  the 
wild  ducks  that  swam  in  the  reeds ;  but  Connao 
his  father,  that  had  lost  his  kingdom  by  raison 
o'  the  Danes,  could  sit  at  the  door  o*  his  cabin 
on'  bring  down  the  sparrow-hawk  that  flew 
across  the  fir  trees.  An'  the  fir  trees  grew  where 
the  reeds  ended. 

An'  Eiveen  the  Swift  could  run  beyant  the 
deer  in  the  forest,  an'  turn  them  toward  his 
brother,  in  the  chase;  but  King  Cormac,  for 
all  his  white  hair,  was  swifter  still,  an'  could 
keep  abreast  o*  the  wind  as  it  blew  over  the 
green  grass,  an'  sent  the  little  waves  to  break 
on  the  shores  o'  the  Lough. 

An'  Conan  stayed  by  the  cabin,  an'  brought 
in  wood  for  the  fire,  an'  roasted  the  meat  when 
his  brothers  came  home  weary  from  the  hills. 
But  when  they  were  off  in  the  early  mornin', 
an'  King  Cormac  sleepin'  before  the  fire  on  his 
bed  o'  rushes,  Conan  would  sit  by  the  door  with 


THE  CONSTANT  GREEN  JERKIN         3 

his  harp,  an'  sing  till  the  fishes  poked  their 
heads  out  o'  the  Lough  to  hear — an'  even  the 
old  king  himself  could  do  nothin'  greater  nor 
that. 

So  time  went  past,  an*  King  Cormao  gave  UR 
livin'  because  o9  being  so  oldj  an'  there  was 
nothing  for  him  to  leave  to  his  three  sons  be- 
yant  his  blessin'  an*  the  shabby  old  green  jerkin 
that  he  wore* 

11  'Tis  the  chief est  treasure  I  have,"  says  he, 
"an'  I  give  it  yees  with  me  blessin'.  Let  none 
scorn  it,  or  'twill  shame  him  in  the  end."  An' 
with  that  he  died,  an'  they  buried  him  on  the 
shore  o'  the  Lough,  with  a  great  pile  o'  stonea 
to  mark  the  spot. 

So  when  the  night  came,  Dermond  an'  JSiveea 
lay  by  the  fire ;  but  Conan  the  Singer  sat  in  the 
moonlight,  playin'  an'  singin'  to  break  the  very 
hearts  o'  those  that  heard;  an'  even  his  two 
brothers  were  a-sorrowin',  for  all  they  were 
stout  an'  fierce. 

An'  says  Dermond  o'  the  Bow;  "Give  me  the 
green  jerkin  j  for  'tis  I  am  the  oldest,  an*  should 
wear  it  for  a  sign  o7  mournin'  for  King  £Jorma£ 
our  father." 


4  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

An*  Eiveen  the  Swift  brought  it  from  the 
corner  where  it  was  hangin',  an'  slipped  it  on 
his  brother's  arms.  But  Conan  kept  on  playin' 
in  the  moonlight,  an'  lookin'  down  the  path  o' 
the  stars  in  the  wathers  o '  the  Lough. 

An'  as  he  sat  there,  there  came  a  great  noise 
o'  folk  ridin'  down  the  mountain  side,  rattlin' 
the  stones  under  the  feet  o'  the  horses  an* 
jinglin'  their  spurs,  an'  callin'  one  to  the  other. 
An'  at  the  head  o'  the  line  rode  two  together. 

One  was  a  little,  shrivelled  old  man,  with  eyes 
that  burned  like  coals  o'  fire  in  his  face;  an' 
his  hair  was  thin  an'  grey;  an'  while  he  was 
no  giant  like  King  Cormac,  yet  he  wore  rich 
armour,  an'  a  crown  on  his  head.  An'  beside 
him,  on  a  white  horse,  came  the  fairest  girl 
that  had  been  seen  in  that  place  for  many  a 
day.  Her  dress  was  o'  the  green  silk,  with  a 
mantle  o'  scarlet  hangin'  from  her  shoulders; 
an'  her  hair  was  shinin'  yellow,  so  that  one 
could  scarce  see  the  band  o'  wrought  gold  in  it, 
tellin'  her  for  a  real  king's  daughter.  An'  be- 
hind came  servants  on  horse  an'  afoot,  dressed 
in  bright  cloth. 

The  moon  was  shinin'  till  'twas  light  as  day, 


THE  CONSTANT  GREEN  JERKIN         5 

an*  they  rode  up  to  where  Conan  was  singing 
an'  sat  on  their  horses  lookin'  at  him.  Then 
his  brothers,  hearin'  the  noise,  came  to  the  door 
an'  stared  out;  but  Conan  sang  on,  never  carin' 
for  naught  but  the  pile  o'  stones  by  the  shore. 

Then  the  old  man,  that  was  a  king,  spoke  to 
Dermond  o'  the  Bow. 

" Is  it  here  that  is  the  dwellin'  o'  Connao 
without  a  Kingdom?" 

"Ay,"  says  Dermond.  "Yestermorn  it  was 
that  same;  but  this  night  he  lies  beneath  the 
cairn  o'  stones  that  is  on  the  edge  o'  the  Lough." 

"Then  is  a  sthrong  man  passed,"  answered 
the  old  man.  "An'  we  may  turn  back  as  we 
came." 

"An'  who  may  ye  be?"  asked  Eiveen  the 
Swift,  pushin'  forward. 

"King  Murdough  am  I,  an'  this  is  me 
daughter  Maurya,  whom  I  would  give  to  the 
champion  who  shall  help  me  against  the  Danes. 
An'  Cormac  was  the  sthrongest  man  of  his 
hands  in  all  the  land,  though  his  hair  was  white. 
For  that  would  I  have  given  him  me  daughter, 
an'  he  should  have  ruled  me  kingdom  for  me. 


e  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

/ 

Then  would  naught  have  hindhered  me  from 
spendin'  me  days  in  search  o'  deep  leafflinV 

An'  the  princess  nodded  as  he  spoke,  but  her 
eyes  were  on  Conan. 

"Try  me,"  says  Dermond,  throwin'  back  his 
black  hair,  to  look  more  closely  at  the  princess. 

Says  King  Murdough:  "But  'tis  not  alone 
a  sthrong  man  I  must  have.  'Tis  the  sthrongest 
— an'  one  with  wisdom  in  his  heart  to  rule 
men." 

"Try  me,"  says  Dermond  again,  "for  I  am 
the  first-born  son  o'  King  Cormac,  an*  none 
can  stand  up  against  me  an'  live  to  tell  of  it." 

When  King  Murdough  looked  at  him,  an'  saw 
what  a  fine  sthrong  fellow  he  was,  afther  a  bit 
it  seemed  to  him  that  this  might  prove  a  cham- 
pion to  his  mind ;  so  he  called  a  servant  to  bring 
forward  a  horse. 

"Come  to  me  court  for  three  days,"  says  he. 
"An'  if  ye  stand  trial  o'  strength  with  the  best 
o'  me  men,  an'  do  as  ye  boast — then  shall  ye 
be  me  son,  an'  rule  for  me." 

Then  Dermond  mounted  the  horse  an'  rode 
off  up  the  mountain  with  King  Murdough — an' 
the  princess  beside  him,  with  the  golden  hair 


THE  CONSTANT  GREEN  JERKIN         7 

that  made  light  shine  in  the  air  as  she  turned 
to  look  back  at  Conan,  where  he  sat  playin '  his 
sorrowin'  for  his  father. 

Now  afther  Dermond  o'  the  Bow  rode  across 
the  mountains  to  where  King  Murdough  held 
court,  he  had  a  fine  room  given  him,  an'  all  the 
walls  were  covered  with  silver  cloth;  an7  two 
servin'  men  went  afther  him  wherever  he 
walked,  to  carry  his  bow  an'  arrows.  An'  the 
princess  sent  him  a  sword  an'  shield, 

So  the  first  thing  in  the  mornin',  King  Mur- 
dough called  him  out  in  the  courtyard,  an'  bid 
him  show  how  far  he  could  shoot.  An'  Der- 
mond shot  across  the  castle,  an'  killed  a  pigeon 
that  perched  on  the  wall  beyant.  An'  'twas 
himself  was  more  surprised  than  any,  for  never 
before  had  he  done  that  well. 

"You  have  shot  eastward;  now  try  to  the 
west,"  says  the  princess. 

So  lie  looked  where  the  forest  was,  to  the 
west — an'  never  had  he  seen  so  clear — an'  there 
was  somethin'  stirrin'  among  the  bushes,  Der- 
mond bent  his  bow  an'  took  aim,  an'  the  arrow 
flew  over  wall  an'  stream — an'  a  deer  leaped 
up  in  the  air,  an'  fell  dead  in  the  open, 


8  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

King  Murdough  nodded  his  head  when  he 
saw  that,  for  he  was  thinkin'  that  this  was  sure 
the  man  he  needed;  an'  he  led  him  in,  an'  made 
a  great  feast  for  him.  But  the  servants  o'  the 
princess  stood  aside,  an'  laughed  at  his  old 
ragged  shoes,  an'  at  the  faded  green  jerkin  that 
was  nigh  on  too  small  for  his  shoulders. 

"  'Tis  a  scarecrow,  an'  no  prince  at  all," 
says  one. 

"Put  him  up  on  the  castle  wall,  an'  he'll 
fright  the  Danes  as  he  is,"  says  another. 

Now  Dennond  was  a  proud  man  o'  his  birth, 
an*  he  pretended  not  to  hear  them,  thinkin'  o' 
the  fine  things  he  would  have  when  he  wed  the 
princess.  So  the  first  day  went  over  without 
more  trouble. 

Then  on  the  second  day  came  the  best  fighters 
o'  King  Murdough's  men,  an'  Dennond  had 
never  been  so  sthrong  in  fightin'  as  he  was  then. 
Down  went  every  man  he  put  hand  on,  an'  none 
could  stand  up  afther. 

That  night  there  was  another  feast;  an'  more 
nor  before  the  maids  that  served  Princess 
Maurya  passed  behind  his  chair  an'  laughed  to 
each  other  at  his  poor  dress.  An'  sleepin'  that 


THE  CONSTANT  GREEN  JERKIN         9 

night,  an'  wakin'  in  the  mornin',  he  was  hot 
with  anger  at  them.  He  took  the  sword  that 
the  princess  had  given  him,  an*  cut  a  great 
piece  o'  the  silver  cloth  from  the  wall  o'  the 
room  an*  made  himself  a  cloak  of  it. 

"There's  none  '11  dare  to  spake  of  it 
to-morrow,  when  I've  married  the  king's 
daughter,"  says  he,  an'  he  threw  the  old  green 
jerkin  back  o'  the  door. 

When  he  came  to  the  field  where  he  was  to 
show  his  strength,  there  was  no  man  willin' 
to  match  with  him.  Then  King  Murdough  gave 
word  to  blow  the  horn  on  the  castle  wall,  tellin' 
all  who  heard  that  here  was  a  great  champion, 
an'  that  who  wanted  could  try  fightin'  with  him. 

At  last  Eocha,  a  great,  stout  man,  that  was 
chief  cook  for  the  king's  table,  put  his  head  out 
o'  the  door. 

" Fight  will  I,"  says  he.  " Greasy  apron 
against  silver  doublet,  an'  see  which  wins." 

Dermond  looked  at  him  scornful  like,  for  he 
was  sure  o'  whippin'  him,  an'  he  stepped  up 
bravely.  An'  there  before  he  knew  it,  sure 
'twas  Dermond  o'  the  Bow  was  lyin'  on  the 


10  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

stones  o'  the  courtyard,  beaten  fair  an*  square, 
under  the  very  eyes  o'  the  princess. 

An*  then  others  took  heart  an'  came  up  to 
fight,  while  poor  Dermond  had  no  heart  to  battle 
with  more  o'  them,  an'  no  understandin'  how 
all  this  had  come  about. 

"Fine  feathers  make  the  peacock,"  laughed 
the  girls.  ' '  Where  now  is  yer  green  jerkin,  Der- 
mond the  Champion?" 

So,  all  sudden  like,  it  came  to  him  what  his 
father  had  said,  an*  he  rushed  off  to  the  room 
where  he'd  slept,  lookin'  for  the  jerkin;  but 
no  sign  of  it  was  to  be  seen  near  nor  far.  An* 
in  the  doorway  stood  the  princess,  smilin'  at 
him. 

"What  has  gone  wrong?"  she  asked. 

"Lady  Maurya,"  says  Dermond,  "me  jerkin 
is  gone,  an'  me  power  with  it.  Let  me  go  from 
here,  for  I'm  disgraced." 

"An'  have  ye  no  strength  o'  yer  own,  lackin' 
it?"  asked  she. 

"Ay,"  he  answered,  "but  not  more  nor  other 
men." 

"Then  here  is  a  purse  o'  gold,  Dermond  o' 
the  Bow,  that  ye  may  go  off  to  some  far  king- 


THE  CONSTANT  GREEN  JERKIN        11 

dom,  where  ye  can  win  another  for  yer  wife. 
But  I  am  not  for  ye." 

An'  he  crept  out  by  the  low  door  at  the  back 
o'  the  castle,  an'  went  off  over  the  hills  to  seek 
his  fortune,  an'  came  back  no  more. 

Now  while  these  things  were  doin'  in  Bang 
Murdough's  castle,  Eiveen  the  Swift  an'  Conan 
his  brother  were  livin'  quietly  by  the  Lough 
o'  the  Eagle.  Each  mornin'  Conan  took  his 
harp  to  the  edge  o'  the  wather  an'  played  a 
lament  for  Cormac.  An'  when  the  third  mornin' 
came,  there  on  the  cairn  was  somethin'  strange. 
Conan  went  to  see,  an'  'twas  none  other  than 
the  green  jerkin. 

He  called  out  aloud  to  Eiveen,  who  came  run- 
nin'.  "What  is  it!"  says  he. 

"The  green  jerkin  has  come  back  without 
Dermond  in  it,"  says  Conan. 

"More  like  that  he  has  been  here  an'  left  it 
for  us  while  we  were  sleepin',"  says  Eiveen. 

"Then  'twill  bring  him  no  luck,"  says  Conan. 
"Did  not  Cormac  our  father  say  that  whoever 
scorned  it  would  be  shamed  by  it  in  the  end  I ' ' 

"I  will  wear  it  for  thought  o'  him,"  answered 


12  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

Eiveen.  *  'An'  'tis  in  me  mind  to  go  to  the  court 
an'  visit  Dermond  an'  his  princess." 

With  no  more  words,  off  went  Eiveen,  like 
the  wind.  Never  had  he  run  so  swiftly,  an* 
without  wearyin',  though  the  way  was  up  hill 
an*  over  rocks.  An'  when  he  came  to  the  castle 
he  gave  a  great  rap  at  the  gate. 

"Who  stands  knockin'  ? ' '  called  out  the  guard. 

"Eiveen  the  Swift,  brother  to  Dermond  o' 
the  Bow.  Let  me  come  in." 

Well,  the  guard  ran  to  Princess  Maurya,  with 
word  that  the  brother  o'  Dermond  was  at  the 
gate,  clad  in  the  same  old  green  jerkin. 

"Send  him  to  me,"  says  the  princess;  an' 
she  watched  the  door  close  as  she  heard  his  feet 
comin'  near.  But  when  she  saw  him,  she  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  to  hear  what  he  should  say. 
An'  Eiveen  the  Swift  looked  at  her  with  cold 
eyes,  an'  thought  how  well  he  would  like  to  be 
in  his  brother's  shoes. 

"Where  is  Dermond  o'  the  Bow?"  he  asked. 

"Gone  to  seek  his  fortune  in  other  lands," 
says  Princess  Maurya. 

"An'  have  ye  a  champion  betther  nor  him?" 
says  Eiveen. 


THE  CONSTANT  GREEN  JERKIN        13 

"Nay,"  says  she.  "He  was  thrown  to  the 
ground  by  Eocha,  who  is  the  cook.  I  will  have 
no  cook  for  a  champion,  but  a  right  king's  son, 
even  though  he  be  poor." 

"Then  will  I  try  me  fortune,"  says  Eiveen. 

An*  with  him  it  went  as  it  had  with  Dermond. 
The  first  day  he  threw  down  each  man  that  came 
against  him;  an'  first  of  all  was  fat  Eocha  the 
cook  sent  sprawlin'  among  the  stones. 

But  when  the  maids  saw  Eiveen  they  laughed 
again. 

"A  pretty  set  o'  champions  come  for  our 
princess,  with  their  old  green  coats;  when  she 
wears  nothin'  poorer  nor  silk  an'  stuff  o'  gold." 

Eiveen  says  never  a  word,  thinkin'  how  he 
would  turn  them  all  away  into  the  cold  when 
he  was  married  to  Princess  Maurya. 

An*  the  second  day  he  shot  an  arrow  across 
the  castle  wall,  an'  killed  a  hawk  that  was 
carryin'  off  a  chicken  from  beyant  the  river. 
An*  again  he  cut  a  lock  o'  hair  from  the  head 
o'  Cleena,  daughter  o'  Feargus  the  Black,  as 
she  bent  to  draw  wather  at  the  ford. 

But  naught  held  back  the  girls  from  castin' 
looks  at  his  old  coat,  in  the  hall,  an'  saying  to 


14  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

each  other — pretendin'  to  be  whisperin' — to  see 
how  well  King  Cormac  had  done  for  his  sons. 

Then  Eiveen  grew  hot  with  rage,  an*  went 
off  to  his  bed.  An'  all  night  he  tossed  about, 
thinkin'  o'  the  gay  silken  an'  velvet  clothes  that 
the  other  men  wore  as  though  they  were  naught 
worth  speakin'  of.  An'  when  it  began  to  grow 
light  he  rose  from  his  bed  an '  tore  down  a  piece 
o'  gold  cloth  that  hung  in  the  doorway,  an'  made 
a  doublet  to  wear. 

"Sure,"  thought  he,  "it'll  all  be  mine  by  to- 
morrow. 'Tis  but  borrowin'  me  own."  An' 
the  jerkin  he  left  lyin'  by  the  window. 

Then  afther  a  bit  he  came  runnin'  back  for 
it — for  the  fine  gold  doublet  was  all  split  up 
from  his  bein'  thrown  by  King  Murdough's 
groom.  But  the  jerkin  was  not  where  he  had 
left  it 

"An'  are  ye  beaten,  too?"  asked  Princess 
Maurya.  < 

"That  am  I — an'  a  worse  fate  befall  Kevin 
the  groom  for  trippin'  me  on  the  pavement," 
answered  Eiveen.  So  she  turned  away,  an'  sent 
him  a  purse  o'  money  by  the  hands  o'  Maive 
the  Fair — one  o'  the  maids  that  had  laughed 


THE  CONSTANT  GREEN  JERKIN        15 

at  him  in  the  hall.  But  in  Maive's  heart  rose 
sorrowin'  for  Eiveen's  ill  fortune,  an'  when  she 
opened  the  gate  to  let  him  pass  out,  she  gave  him 
her  hand  an'  followed  him,  an*  together  they 
went  out  into  the  world  to  win  fortune. 

Then  it  so  happened  that  a  second  time  Conan 
the  Singer  rose  in  early  mornin'  an*  found  the 
old  jerkin  lyin'  on  the  grave  o'  Cormac. 

'  *  Scorn  has  come  again, ' '  thought  he.  f '  Now 
'tis  me  turn  to  wear  it  for  love  o'  him  who  lies 
by  the  shore.  An'  it  shall  go  hard  with  one 
who  takes  it  from  me." 

Then  he  took  his  harp  on  his  arm,  an'  went 
away  up  the  mountain  pass,  where  the  eagle  was 
callin'  to  its  young. 

At  last  he  came  to  the  castle,  an'  sat  down 
by  the  gate,  an'  struck  his  harp,  till  all  the  men 
an'  maids  ran  to  see  who  was  there.  An'  even 
the  Princess  Maurya  stepped  down  from  her 
great  chair,  an'  went  to  the  courtyard. 

When  she  saw  Conan,  her  eyes  laughed  with 
joy,  an'  she  bade  him  enter,  an'  herself  led  him 
to  King-Murdough. 

''Here  is  a  champion  again,"  says  she. 


16  THE  SONS  CTCORMAC 

"Nay,"  says  Conan,  "I  came  to  search  for  me 
brothers." 

"They  have  gone  to  far  countries,"  answered 
the  princess,  "to  find  fortune.  Will  ye  try  yer 
own  ?  Have  ye  a  mind  for  fightin ',  an '  for  bein ' 
me  father's  champion?" 

"That  have  I,  though  it  has  never  come  to 
me  to  fight  with  men,"  says  Conan;  an'  he  bent 
down  low  an'  kissed  her  hand. 

Then  King  Murdough  gave  him  lodgin'  for 
the  night;  an' — by  order  o'  the  princess — 'twas 
a  small  bare  room.  An'  in  the  mornin'  Conan 
came  into  the  courtyard,  an'  looked  at  all  the 
men  who  were  there  waitin'  to  fight  with  him. 

"An'  did  Dermond  meet  these?"  he  asked  o' 
the  king. 

"That  he  did,"  answered  King  Murdough, 
"an*  gained  the  masthery  for  a  day." 

"Then  will  I  do  as  well  as  he,"  says  Conan. 

So  Princess  Maurya  brought  out  a  sword  an' 
a  shield,  an'  stood  on  the  broad  top  o'  the  castle 
wall  to  see  the  fightin';  an'  Conan  beat  all  the 
warriors  back,  like  a  brave  lad. 

Then,  when  King  Murdough  made  the  feast, 
Conan  sat  beside  the  princess  in  his  old  jerkin, 


THE  CONSTANT 'GREEN  JERKIN       17 

that  had  taken  many  a  cut  that  day;  an*  afther 
a  while  he  chanced  to  look  up  an'  see  that  the 
maids  were  makin'  jest  o'  him. 

"Why  are  ye  laughin',  me  girls  I"  he  asked; 
an'  the  princess  waited  to  see  what  would  come 
of  it  this  time. 

"Because  o'  the  ragged  coat  ye  wear/'  says 
Cleena.  "Have  the  sons  o'  Cormac  but  one 
jerkin  between  them?" 

"Let  none  scorn  it,"  says  Conan,  "or  'twill 
shame  him  in  the  end.  For  a  token  o'  mournin' 
an'  for  love  o'  Cormac  do  I  wear  it;  an'  I  fear 
to  meet  no  man  because  of  it,  though  he  be 
dressed  in  silks  an'  satin."  An'  he  turned  to 
Princess  Maurya,  an'  thought  no  more  o'  their 
foolish  words.  An'  all  night  he  dreamed  o' 
her  golden  hair,  until  the  room  shone  with  the 
rememberin'  of  it. 

In  the  mornin'  he  was  ready  for  another  trial ; 
an'  when  they  brought  him  the  bow,  he  bent  it 
bravely,  an'  sent  his  first  arrow  whirrin' 
through  the  open  window  of  a  cabin  that  stood 
beyant  the  ford,  an'  clipped  out  a  candle  that 
burned  on  the  shelf  within.  An'  for  his  second 
shot,  he  slew  two  great  hawks  that  flew  above 


18  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

the  castle  wall,  an'  together  they  fell  into  the 
river. 

So  that  trial  was  passed,  an'  Conan  went  into 
the  great  hall,  an'  sat  at  the  feet  o'  the  princess, 
an'  played  an'  sang  until  all  the  noise  o'  the 
court  ceased  for  love  o'  his  song. 

Yet  in  the  evenin',  at  the  feastin',  the  king's 
men  spoke  scornin'  words  o'  his  torn  jerkin. 

"Will  ye  go  against  the  Danes  in  it?"  asked 
Feargus  the  Black.  "Then  may  they  see  that 
ye  are  but  a  poor  man's  son,  an'  no  prince." 

"To-morrow  shall  ye  take  that  word  back," 
says  Conan  o'  the  Long  Arms,  "for  no  man 
shall  make  a  jest  o'  Cormac  the  King  while  me 
arms  have  strength." 

An'  all  through  the  night  Conan  dreamed  o' 
the  blue  eyes  o'  Princess  Maurya. 

When  the  mornin'  came,  Feargus  stood 
waitin'  in  the  yard  for  Conan  to  come  to  him; 
and  Princess  Maurya  watched  to  see  what 
should  befall.  Then  Conan  came  from  his  bed, 
an'  on  his  back  was  the  green  jerkin,  an'  in  his 
hand  the  sword  o'  the  princess. 

An'  there  was  no  chance  at  all  for  Feargus 
the  Black,  though  he  was  the  best  man  in  the 


THE  CONSTANT  GREEN  JERKIN        19 

court  o'  the  king.  Sure,  his  sword  went  flyin' 
through  the  air,  an'  fell  outside  the  wall. 

When  they  saw  that,  there  was  no  one  left  to 
risk  fightin'  with  Conan,  an'  the  king  led  him 
into  the  great  wall  with  his  own  hands. 

1  'Now  will  ye  have  Oona  o'  the  White  Hands 
to  be  yer  wife ;  an'  room  to  live  here  in  me  castle, 
with  ten  pieces  o'  gold  for  every  day,  an'  silk 
to  wear;  or  will  ye  live  in  a  cabin  outside  the 
wall,  an'  wear  yer  old  jerkin,  like  a  poor 
kerne?" 

"Outside  the  wall  is  for  me,  if  Princess 
Maurya  will  be  there  too,"  answered  Conan. 
4 'But  me  jerkin  will  I  wear,  an'  none  but  her 
will  I  wed." 

"Nay,  if  ye  take  her,  together  may  yees 
wander  into  the  world,  for  I  give  no  gold  with 
her." 

"Then  out  into  the  world  we  go,"  says  Conan 
blithely,  holdin'  out  his  hand  to  her,  an'  she 
put  hers  into  it  with  gladness. 

"An'  call  ye  that  wisdom?"  says  King  Mur- 
dough.  "Would  ye  rule  men  afther  that 
fashion?" 

"Who  should  rule  men  but  him  that  rules  his 


20  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

own?"  says  Conan.  An'  the  princess  says 
"Ay." 

"Then  have  ye  won  yer  rulin'  fairly,"  says 
King  Murdough,  "an'  shall  have  her  an'  the 
kingdom.  An'  as  for  the  jerkin,  'tis  yer  robe 
of  honour  at  this  court;  an'  who  says  aught 
ill  of  it,  to  him  shame  shall  come." 

So  King  Murdough  made  great  rejoicin's,  an* 
gave  his  daughter  to  Conan,  callin'  him  Conan 
o'  the  Kingdom,  for  a  sign  that  he  was  the 
greatest  man  in  it. 

An'  so  far  went  the  fear  o'  his  name  that 
neither  Dane  nor  any  other  enemy  dared  set 
foot  in  the  land  for  many  a  day,  lest  they  might 
catch  sight  o'  the  green  jerkin  which  gave  power 
to  the  long  arms  o'  Conan. 

["But  why  did  the  princess  put  Conan  in  the 
little  bare  room?"  "Ah,  when  we  guess 
why  she  did  that,  we  '11  know  all  o '  the  tale 
that's  untold.  An'  now  be  off  with  yees, 
till  I  wather  me  green  grass."] 


THE  HABVESTIN*  0'  DEBMOITD 

["No,  IVe  naught  to  tell  yees  the  day,  BO  out 
o*  the  barn  with  yees.  Here's  all  the  har- 
ness to  be  rubbed  bright  before  the  masther 
goes  out  dhrivin'.  What?  "Tis  rainin'? 
An*  yees  can't  be  afther  takin'  yer  walk? 
Ay!  ay  I  Well,  sit  ye  all  down  beyant  in 
the  corner  there,  an'  I'll  be  thinkin'  about 
it."] 

YB'LL  be  mindin'  how  Dermond — him  that 
they  called  Dermond  o'  the  Bow — afther  Prin- 
cess Maurya  gave  him  the  purse  o'  gold,  slipped 
out  o'  the  little  low  door  at  the  back  o'  King 
Murdough's  castle,  an'  was  off  without  no  more 
words  to  no  one?  Sure,  he  was  mighty  shamed 
to  have  been  tumbled  over  by  a  fat  cook,  like 
a  bag  o'  fresh  ground  meal  on  the  floor  o'  the 
mill.  So  he  turned  toward  the  hills,  an'  walked 

21 


22  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

on  for  many  a  mile,  not  lookin'  to  right  nor  to 
left,  nor  even  mindin'  that  he  was  still  wearin* 
the  cloak  o'  silver  cloth  that  had  brought  him 
disasther. 

'Twas  early  mornin7  when  he  left  the  little 
small  door  behind  him ;  but  'twas  nigh  on  night, 
an7  the  shadows  runnin'  long  down  the  hillside, 
when  he  first  thought  on  where  his  feet  might 
be  afther  takin'  him.  He'd  little  heart  what- 
ever to  be  goin'  back  to  the  Lough  o'  the  Eagle, 
where  his  two  brothers  were  livin',  to  be  lettin' 
on  to  them  that  he  was  beaten. 

"Nay,"  says  he,  "  'tis  far  betther  to  be 
heedin'  Lady  Maurya's  words.  There's  many 
kingdoms  in  the  land  where  a  stout-hearted 
warrior  '11  find  fightin'  to  his  hand,  an'  that's 
where  I'll  win  me  a  princess  fairly  for  me  wife." 

An'  that  was  brave  talkin',  for  Dermond  had 
neither  sword  nor  shield  to  his  side,  but  just 
his  long  bow  an'  a  little  sharp  knife  for  cuttin' 
up  meat. 

Now  the  wind  was  beginnin'  to  rise  at  his 
back,  an'  it  came  sweepin'  up  the  mountain  side, 
an'  he  had  to  stand  an'  meet  it  a  bit,  to  keep 
on  his  feet  at  all.  An'  all  in  a  breath  his  gay 


THE  HARVESTIN'  0'  DERMOND         23 

silver  cloak  was  caught  by  the  gale  an'  torn 
away  from  him,  an'  it  went  whirlin'  in  the  wind 
down  the  way  he'd  been  comin',  where  'twas 
darkenin'  with  heavy  clouds. 

Then  he  looked  ahead,  up  the  Path  o'  the 
Eocks  that  he  was  climbin',  an'  at  the  top  of 
it,  where  the  way  turned  down  to  the  valley 
beyant,  he  saw  the  red  light  o '  the  setting  sun. 

"  Better  to  push  on  than  to  turn  back  without 
reachin'  the  top,  an*  all  for  the  sake  o'  that 
cloak  o '  bad  fortune, ' '  thought  Dermond.  '  *  Sil- 
ver for  sorrow,  an'  I've  learned  that  lesson  to 
me  cost." 

So  up  he  went,  an'  the  light  kep'  growin' 
brighter,  until  when  he  stood  at  the  top  o'  the 
hill,  he  could  scarce  see  the  valley  before  him 
for  the  shinin'  o'  the  sky. 

'Twas  a  broad  valley,  that,  for  all  the  way 
into  it  was  so  narrow;  an'  'twas  sthrange  to 
him,  bein'  no  place  that  he  had  ever  crossed 
in  his  huntin'.  All  around  it  were  steep  hills, 
with  sides  that  no  man  could  climb,  barrin'  he 
had  the  wings  o'  the  grey  hawk  an'  the  bold 
heart  of  it.  An'  beyant  the  plain,  stretchin'  to 


24  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

the  west,  was  a  deep  forest.  But  nowhere  was 
sign  o'  livin'  men. 

For  just  a  moment  he  looked  back  over  the 
road  he'd  come  by:  an'  as  he  did  that  same 
he  heard  a  small  chucklin'  laugh  round  behind 
him.  Sure,  he  turned  again  in  a  jiffy,  but  all 
that  met  his  eye  was  a  glint  o'  somethin'  red, 
down  among  the  rocks. beside  the  path. 

Well,  he  was  afther  it  with  all  his  speed,  but 
never  a  bit  did  it  come  in  his  road,  though  he 
looked  every  way  at  once.  An'  at  last,  when 
he  found  himself  by  the  foot  o'  the  path,  down 
on  the  broad  plain,  for  all  the  world  he  could 
not  tell  by  what  way  he  had  come  down  the 
rocks. 

But  for  all  the  sunset  was  fadin'  fast,"  there 
was  no  fear  o '  the  night  in  the  heart  o'  Dermond. 
He  looked  over  the  valley,  an'  saw  far  off  where 
four  oak  trees  grew  close  by  each  other,  like 
they  were  the  corners  of  a  cabin:  an'  when  he 
reached  them  he  thought  in  his  mind  that  there 
he  would  sleep  till  the  morn's  mornin',  supper 
or  none. 

'Twas  dark  then,  an'  he  lay  down  on  the  long 
grass,  an'  soon  fell  to  sleepin',  an'  never  woke 


THE  HARVESTIN'  0'  DERMOND         25 

nor  stirred  till  'twas  far  past  moonrise,  when 
he  leaped  up  all  sudden  like,  thinkin'  he  heard 
his  name.  But  none  answered  his  callin'. 

An'  as  he  stepped  close  to  one  o'  the  oaks — 
that  which  stood  to  the  south  (an'  'twas  that 
way  he  would  have  taken  to  return  to  the  cabin 
o'  Cormac,  his  father) — he  heard  the  far-off 
playin'  of  a  harp;  an'  it  cjame  to  him  that  'twas 
Conan,  his  youngest  brother,  was  touchin'  it. 
So  he  listened,  quiet  like,  an'  sure  enough  'twas 
a  lament  for  Cormac  without  a  Kingdom  waa 
ringin'  in  his  ears. 

Then  right  close,  almost  at  his  feet,  was  a 
sound  like  a  little  small  voice  laughin',  as  he 
had  heard  it  on  the  Path  o'  the  Eocks.  He 
quick  reached  out  his  hand  to  catch  whoever  it 
was,  an'  went  creepin'  toward  it,  till  he  touched 
the  next  tree,  that  was  toward  the  east.  An' 
as  he  stood  gropin'  round,  he  heard  other 
laughin' — like  that  o'  the  maids  o'  Princess 
Maurya,  who  had  jeered  at  him  in  the  hall  for 
wearin'  the  old  jerkin  o'  King  Cormac,  for 
which  he  had  torn  the  silver  cloth  from  the  wall 
an'  made  himself  a  cloak,  an'  lost  his  power  by 
that  same. 


26  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

An*  a  girl's  voice  was  sayin':  "A  pretty  set 
o*  champions  come  for  our  princess,  with  their 
old  green  coats;  when  she  wears  nothin'  poorer 
nor  silk  an'  stuff  o'  gold."  An'  more  he 
listened,  an'  heard  the  voice  o'  Eiveen,  his 
brother  that  was  next  him  in  years,  an'  that 
o'  Princess  Maurya  answerin'.  An'  the  small 
voice  down  by  his  feet  chuckled  again. 

By  now  Dermond  guessed  well  that  some  spell 
lay  on  the  trees,  makin'  his  ears  hear  what  was 
far  away;  so  he  went  on  to  the  third,  which 
was  to  the  north  o'  the  rest,  an'  hearkened; 
but  there  he  heard  naught  but  the  sighin'  o' 
wind,  an'  the  beatin'  o'  waves  on  the  shore. 
An'  he  knew  that  the  sea  was  many  a  mile 
beyant. 

He  thought  o'  the  Little  People  that  had 
favoured  Cormac,  his  father;  an'  as  the  moon 
rose  higher,  he  looked  to  see  them  under  the 
branches  o '  the  oaks ;  but  they  must  have  crept 
under  the  fallen  acorn  cups,  for  not  a  red  cap 
could  he  spy. 

At  last  he  put  his  hand  on  the  trunk  o'  the 
fourth  tree,  an'  that  was  west,  an'  farther  up 
the  valley  than  he  had  gone.  An'  seemin'  as  if 


THE  HARVESTIN'  O'  DERMOND  27 

'twas  comin'  out  o'  the  wide  spreadin'  branches 
or  the  flutterin'  o'  the  leaves,  he  heard  the 
speakin'  of  a  sthrange  voice  in  his  ears;  an' 
'twas  an  old  man's,  sayin': — 

1 '  'Tis  time  for  the  plantin '  o '  me  field.  Heart 
o'  me  life,  is  the  seed  ready?" 

An'  the  one  answerin'  had  the  softest  voice 
that  had  ever  been  heard  o'  Dermond.  Sure, 
the  tremblin'  o'  Conan's  harp  was  harsh  be- 
side it. 

"Ay,  father,"  'twas  sayin',  "an'  who  comes 
to  sow  it?  An'  when  will  be  the  harvestin'l" 

"That  shall  be  known  when  one  comes  for 
hirin'.  None  may  sow  that  seed  but  a  man 
without  fear  o'  fortune;  an'  none  may  harvest 
it  with  doubt  in  his  heart." 

Dermond  was  listenin'  hard;  but  just  then  a 
cloud  passed  across  the  moon,  an'  the  words 
ended.  Long  time  he  waited  to  hear  if  that  soft 
voice  wasn't  speakin',  but  'twas  no  use  at  all; 
an'  at  last  he  wandhered  out  away  from  the 
trees  an'  into  the  plain,  an'  lay  down  on  the 
open  ground  an'  fell  to  sleepin'  again,  for  he 
was  weary  with  all  his  climbin'. 

This  time  when  he  woke,  'twas  with  more 


28  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

laughin'  in  his  ears,  an'  the  sun  shinin'  bright 
as  ever.  He  gripped  his  bow  tight,  an'  sprang 
to  his  feet  in  a  great  haste;  an*  there,  standin' 
a  little  ways  off,  was  a  girl,  all  in  pale  green 
like  the  young  birches  in  the  heart  o'  spring, 
and  the  laughter  was  runnin'  over  her  face  like 
ripplin'  wather. 

Dermond  stood  dumbfounded,  for  he  had  nigh 
forgot  where  he  was,  an'  he  looked  round  won- 
dherin'  like. 

Then  says  the  girl,  that  had  never  moved 
away  at  all  from  where  she  was  standin': — 

"  'Tis  lost  ye  are." 

An'  Dermond  remembered  the  night,  and 
knew  it  to  be  the  soft  voice  o'  her  that  had 
asked  o'  the  harvestin'. 

"Nay,"  says  he.  "0'  me  own  will  came  I 
here,  seekin'  fortune." 

"An'  what  like  is  the  fortune  that  ye  seek?" 
says  she. 

"To  find  a  kingdom  where  is  good  fightin* 
for  one  with  a  stout  heart  an'  a  sthrong  arm; 
an'  to  get  me  a  princess  for  me  wife,"  says 
Dermond. 


THE  HARVESTIN'  0'  DERMOND        29 

Then  the  girl  laughed  again,  an'  the  sound 
o*  that  was  like  wind  in  the  willow  trees. 

"  'Tis  a  man's  thought,  truly;  an'  I  doubt  not 
ye '11  find  kings'  daughters  a  plenty,  foldin'  their 
hands  an'  waitin'  to  have  ye  come  an'  do  some 
fine  fightin'  to  win  them.  As  if  that  was  the 
bravest  work  for  a  man!  Did  ye  expect  to  be 
afther  findin'  yer  princess  growin'  on  a  bush 
in  this  rich  kingdom?"  an'  she  waved  her  hand 
toward  the  valley. 

" Where  she  is,  there  I'll  find  her;  ay,  an* 
win  her,"  answered  Dermond. 

1  'Have  ye  no  fear,  that  ye  speak  so  bold?" 
asked  the  girl. 

"I  fear  naught  between  the  flyin'  clouds 
above  the  hills  an'  the  runnin'  wather  near  our 
feet,"  says  Dermond. 

"An'  what  man  are  ye!"  says  she. 

"Dermond  o'  the  Bow,  eldest  son  o'  him  who 
was  Cormac  without  a  Kingdom." 

"  An '  for  me  name, ' '  says  the  soft  voice,  *  *  'tis 
Etain,  daughter  o'  Dughall  the  Wise,  who  dwells 
beyant  the  forest  to  the  west." 

"An'  is  there  none  dwells  with  him  but  yer- 
self  ?"  asked  Dermond. 


30  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

"Why  ask  ye  that?"  says  Etain. 

"  'Tis  time  for  plantin'  his  field,"  went  on 
Dermond,  hardly  knowin'  why  he  said  it.  An7 
Etain  looked  at  him  mazed  like. 

"How  knew  ye  that,  seein'  that  no  man  can 
tell  when  the  hour  comes  but  Dughall  himself?" 

"  'Twas  at  moonrise  I  heard  himself  say  it," 
answered  Dermond.  "Yonder  among  the 
trees." 

1 1  Then  must  ye  have  the  favour  o '  the  Little 
People,  for  'tis  risk  an*  peril  for  mortal  man 
to  pass  near  the  Four  Oaks  o'  the  Valley  when 
the  sun  is  high — far  more  at  moonrise.  Will  ye 
come  with  me  to  Dughall?" 

"Ay,  if  me  fortune  lies  that  road,"  says  he. 

"That  is  as  ye  make  it  for  yerself,"  says 
Etain;  an'  for  just  a  moment  she  stood  lookin' 
at  him,  an*  seein'  what  a  splendid  fine  sthrong 
man  he  was,  with  his  shinin'  eyes  an'  the  black 
hair  wavin'  far  down  over  his  shouldhers.  An' 
he  looked  at  her  blue  eyes  an'  rose-red  lips  that 
laughed  whenever  she  began  to  think  of  any- 
thin';  an'  there  was  no  more  rememberin'  o' 
Princess  Maurya — no,  nor  o'  the  maids  that 
served  her,  for  him. 


THE  HARVESTIN'  0'  DERMOND         31 

Then  Etain  nodded  her  head,  an'  turned  an* 
went  over  the  grass  toward  the  forest  so  swift 
that  Dermond  had  all  his  feet  could  do  to  keep 
pace  with  her.  There  was  no  more  speakin', 
but  just  following  as  she  led  the  way  over  grass 
hillocks  an*  into  the  dark  wood. 

'Twas  more  nor  one  time  the  roots  came  nigh 
to  thrippin'  him  off  his  feet;  an'  once  he  saw 
a  little  red  cap  under  a  fern,  an'  heard  the  quare 
laughin',  but  on  he  went,  not  heedin'. 

Af ther  a  time  it  was  in  his  mind  that  the  trees 
o'  this  forest  grew  in  straight  rows,  as  they 
had  been  an  army  o'  men  standin';  but  just 
then  Etain  turned  an*  beckoned  him  to  come 
beside  o'  her.  An'  Dermond  was  not  slow  in 
doin'  that. 

"Are  ye  wise  in  thought  an'  speech?"  asked 
she. 

"No  more  nor  other  men,"  says  Dermond. 

"  'Tis  well  ye 're  willin'  to  own  it,  then.  Are 
ye  stout  o' heart  I" 

"  'Tis  not  well  for  a  man  to  be  boastin',  as 
I  found  to  me  sorrow,  but  ready  am  I  to  serve 
ye  with  two  sthrong  arms." 

"Why  would  ye  serve  me?"  asked  Etain. 


32  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

"For  bein'  the  fairest  maid  in  the  land.  An' 
I  would  ye  were  a  right  king's  daughter,"  says 
Dermond. 

"An'  if  I  were?"  asked  she. 

"Then  would  I  win  ye  fairly." 

"An'  bein'  none?"  says  she;  an'  as  she  spoke 
her  eyes  met  Dermond 's,  an'  a  sudden  fire  leapt 
up  in  his  heart. 

"Then  will  I  make  ye  one,  if  there's  kingdoms 
to  be  won  by  the  sthrong  arml" 

With  that  Etain  smiled,  well  pleased  with  his 
manner  o'  speech;  an'  she  says — 

"If  ye  speak  as  fair  as  that  to  Dughall,  then 
will  ye  have  small  need  o'  me  wisdom.  But 
should  need  come  it  shall  all  be  for  yer  helpin', 
Dermond,  son  o'  Cormac.  An'  now,  here  is  me 
father's  house,  an'  I  bid  ye  welcome." 

Sure  enough,  there  before  them  was  a  long, 
low  buildin',  woven  mainly  o'  the  rushes.  But 
round  it  was  no  sign  o'  servin*  man  or  maid 
at  all.  The  door  stood  wide  open,  an'  Etain 
bent  her  sweet  head  an'  stepped  inside,  an* 
Dermond  went  afther. 

In  a  great  chair  by  the  far  end  o'  the  hall 
sat  Dughall  the  Wise.  His  hair  was  white,  an' 


THE  HARVESTIN'  0'  DERMOND         33 

his  long  beard  rested  on  his  knees ;  but  his  eyes 
saw  far,  an'  as  Dermond  came  nigh  he  rose, 
waitin'  on  Etain,  to  see  what  she  would  be  afther 
sayin'. 

"  'Tis  Dermond  o'  the  Bow,  son  o'  Cormac 
the  King,"  says  she,  "come  to  hire  for  seedin' 
an*  harvestin'." 

Now  Dermond  would  have  said  nay  to  that, 
for  he'd  no  mind  for  such  labour-in';  but  her 
eyes  were  fair  on  him,  an'  he'd  no  will  o'  his 
own  to  do  other  than  her  pleasure. 

"Ay,  that  am  I,"  says  Dermond. 

Then  Dughall  looked  at  him  well,  an'  says 
he— 

"Many  a  rash  man  has  spoken  as  ye  speak, 
an'  has  tried  to  do  what  ye  may  fail  in;  an' 
no  man  has  yet  sowed  that  seed  or  gathered  in 
that  harvest,  else  would  there  be  a  rich  kingdom 
where  is  naught  but  wilderness." 

"An'  how  may  that  be?" 

"From  over  pride  in  wisdom,"  says  Dughall, 
most  bittherly,  "in  the  day  when  Oisin,  son  o9 
Lua,  came  to  this  place,  an'  would  match  his 
craft  with  mine.  An'  not  bein'  content  with 
the  life  that  was  mine,  I  made  wager  that  I  was 


34  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAG 

sthronger.  An*  he  overthrew  me,  an'  laid  a 
spell  on  all  that  was  mine.  An*  naught  could 
lift  it  till  I  held  in  me  hand  a  grain  o'  ripe  corn, 
that  had  been  grown  on  the  mountain-top 
yonder.  Such  o'  me  men  as  were  willin'  to  try 
the  sowin'  an*  harvestin'  were  spared  me  for 
a  time,  but  the  others  he  turned  to  trees.  An* 
as  each  one  failed  in  the  task,  he  became  a  tree. 
Scarce  any  could  reach  the  slope,  for  Oisin  an- 
gered the  Little  People  against  me,  an'  placed 
them  as  guards  round  the  base  o '  the  mountain, 
where  none  might  pass  their  land  in  safety. 
Bran,  alone,  that  was  chief  huntsman,  made  his 
way  to  the  top,  but  there  was  no  right  foothold, 
an*  before  the  seed  was  planted  he  fell,  an'  was 
never  seen  more.  An*  well  may  men  call  me 
Dughall  the  Wise,  for  I  have  shown  great  wis- 
dom, an'  lost  the  lives  o'  sthrong  men." 

Well,  now,  Dermond  thought  an'  thought,  re- 
memberin'  the  sly  laughin'  o'  the  Little  People. 
Yet  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  should  be  some 
way  for  him  to  contrive  success.  So  says  he — 

"An'  where  is  this  mountain!" 

Dughall  brought  him  to  the  door,  an'  pointed 
out  where  it  rose  toward  the  sky;  an'  'twas  a 


THE  HARVESTIN'  0'  DERMOND  35 

terrible  steep  place,  all  crags  an'  towerin' 
precipices,  an'  nigh  on  out  o'  reach  o'  mortal 
man,  had  there  been  no  Little  People  guardin' 
it  at  alL 

Then  a  thought  came  to  Dermond,  an'  he 
turned  to  the  old  man. 

"An'  what  for  soldiers  had  ye?  Were  they 
ethrong  in  sword  fightin',  or  were  they  betther 
at  bendin'  the  bow?" 

"Betther  with  the  sword,  Dermond  son  o' 
Cormac.  No  bowmen  had  I  barrin'  ten;  all 
whom  were  feared  o'  the  Little  People  an'  be- 
came trees." 

"  Ay, "  says  Dermond.  ' '  Well,  'tis  ill  thinkin ' 
o'  grave  matthers  when  one  goes  hungerin'. 
Have  ye  a  bite  o'  food  handy  like,  seein'  that 
'tis  many  hours  I've  been  fastin'?" 

Etain  laughed  at  his  plight,  an'  brought  him 
what  was  to  be  had — roast  meat,  an'  cakes,  an' 
mead  in  a  great  horn;  an*  when  he  had  eaten 
an'  drunk  the  last  crumb  an'  dhrop,  so  that  her 
eyes  were  wide  with  wondherin*  at  his  appetite, 
he  went  out  again  an'  looked  at  the  top  o'  the 
mountain,  while  Dughall  the  Wise  went  back  to 
his  seat,  expectin'  little. 


36  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

But  Etain  stayed  near  Dermond,  an '  together 
they  went  nigh  to  the  foot  o'  the  mountain,  but 
not  on  the  land  o'  the  Little  People.  There 
Dermond  measured  with  his  eye,  an'  saw  that 
the  place  closest  the  mountain-top  was  a  juttin' 
cliff  on  the  side  o'  the  neighbourin'  peak. 

"Have  ye  a  fine  cord?"  he  asked  of  Etain. 

"How  long!"  says  she. 

"To  reach  from  the  cliff  side  to  the  moun- 
tain-top.'* 

"Nay,"  says  she,  "but  I  have  that  which 
will  serve  to  make  one."  An'  with  that  she 
let  down  her  hair,  an'  it  fell  all  round  her  like 
fair  golden  silk,  reachin'  her  sandals  o'  fine 
deer-skin.  An'  she  caught  the  little  small  knife 
from  the  belt  o'  Dermond  an'  cut  through  a 
great  handful  of  it.  Then  Dermond  took  the 
knife  an'  did  the  same  with  his  own  hair,  cuttin' 
it  where  'twas  longest.  An'  together  they 
twisted  it  into  a  fine,  long  cord  o'  black  an'  gold 
colour. 

"Now  bring  me  the  seed  to  be  sowed,"  says 
he;  an'  this  time  'twas  Etain  sprang  to  do  his 
biddin'.  So  he  drew  a  straight  arrow  from  the 
pheaf  at  his  side,  an'  bound  seven  grains  o'  corn 


THE  HARVESTIN'  O'  DERMOND         37 

to  it,  all  tied  in  a  leaf  with  the  end  o'  the  cord. 
Then  he  rolled  up  the  rest  of  it,  an'  started  over 
to  scale  the  cliff  side,  Etain  followin'  him.  At 
last  he  made  his  way  up  the  cliff,  to  where  was  a 
little  small  shelf  o'  rock,  an'  there  he  unrolled 
the  ball  o'  cord  an'  steadied  himself  to  shoot. 

Then,  seein'  what  he  would  be  tryin',  Etain 
called  out  to  him — 

"  First  try  the  shot  with  another  arrow,  for 
fear  o'  missin'." 

"That  is  right  wisdom,"  says  Dermond;  an* 
he  did  that  same,  an'  'twas  well  he  did,  for  the 
wind  whirled  it  past  the  mountain- top,  an'  it 
broke  on  a  rock  below.  But  when  he  had  shot 
twice  more,  he  had  the  way  o'  the  wind,  an' 
could  allow  for  it.  An'  the  fourth  arrow  was 
the  one  with  the  corn  tied  to  it.  Dermond  aimed 
it  sthrong  an'  steady,  an'  sure  enough  it  struck 
deep  into  the  ground  on  the  mountain-top, 
carryin'  the  cord  with  it;  but  the  other  end  o' 
that  same  was  fast  tied  to  the  belt  o'  Dermond. 

An'  lookin'  down  he  could  see  the  face  of 
Etain,  an'  her  eyes  were  bright  with  gladness. 
Aah,  'twas  not  long  before  he  was  at  her  side, 


38  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

leavin'  the  cord  end  with  a  heavy  stone  on  if 
to  hold  it  there. 

"How  will  ye  gather  the  grain f"  says  she; 
yet  half  knowin'  how  'twould  be. 

"By  the  cord  that  holds 'the  arrow,"  says 
Dermond. 

"An*  if  the  birds  fly  down  an'  tear  up  the 
young  plants?" 

"That  they  shall  not,"  says  Dermond.  So 
he  made  many  arrows  o'  straight  branches,  an* 
some  o'  reeds.  An'  he  planted  seven  other 
grains  in  the  valley  below.  An*  when  the  time 
was  comin'  that  the  sprouts  would  be  comin' 
out  o'  the  earth,  he  took  his  arrows  up  the  cliff 
side,  an'  set  himself  to  watchin'. 

An*  whenever  a  bird  flew  near  the  mountain- 
top,  Dermond 's  arrow  shot  straight  an'  true, 
an'  that  bird  came  no  more  away  from  there. 
Ay,  but  'twas  weary  stayin'  there,  for  as  he 
saw  the  green  growin'  higher  an'  higher,  he 
dared  not  so  much  as  think  o'  leavin'  the  cliff 
side,  for  fear  o'  disasther.  If  ye '11  believe  it, 
'twas  nigh  on  three  months  that  he  spent  on 
that  shelf,  havin'  no  mind  to  be  turned  into  oak 
or  fir  tree.  But  one  there  was  who  would  not 


THE  HARVESTIN'  0'  DERMOND         39 


leave  In'm  in  danger  o'  starvin',  an*  Etain  was 
that  same. 

At  last  the  grain  ripened  in  the  valley,  an* 
by  that  Dermond  knew  that  his  time  o'  tri- 
umphin'  was  comin'.  He  called  Dughall  from 
his  hall,  an'  ye  could  have  heard  his  voice 
ringin'  out  for  a  mile. 

An*  then  he  lifted  the  cord  an*  began  to  pull. 
Now  'twas  hard  gettin'  the  plants  loose,  for 
the  roots  had  sthruck  deep  into  the  earth;  an* 
all  round  him  he  seemed  to  be  hearin'  the  Little 
People  jeerin'  at  him  an'  waitin'  for  the  rope 
to  break.  An'  for  a  moment  his  strength  was 
naught. 

Then  he  called  down  to  the  one  who  stood 
nearest  — 

"  Mouth  o'  roses,  are  ye  there  t" 

"Ay,"  says  Etain. 

"Then  laugh!  Laugh  yer  sweetest,  or  I'll 
fail  an'  come  to  ill  yet." 

An'  up  rose  her  laughter  like  bells  o'  gold, 
an'  the  music  o'  that  put  the  strength  o'  seven 
into  the  arms  o'  Dermond  —  for  no  more  could 
lie  hear  the  tauntin'  o'  the  Little  People. 

He  gave  one  more  steady  pull,  an'  down  flew 


40  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

the  stalks  o'  ripe  corn,  roots  an'  leaves  an'  all, 
at  the  feet  o'  Dughall  the  Wise,  an'  he  caught 
them  up  an'  held  the  grain  safe  in  his  hand! 

["And  what  happened  then?" 

"Why,  sure,  all  the  trees  turned  back 
into  the  armed  men  o'  Dughall,  an'  his  low 
house  into  a  fine  royal  palace  for  them  all, 
an'— an' " 

"And  they  lived  happy  ever  after?" 

"Ever  afther.  An'  all  because  Etain 
laughed  sweeter  nor  the  Little  People. 
There's  a  mighty  power  in  a  laugh." 

"And  if  she  hadn't,  wouldn't  there  have 
been  any  story?" 

"No,  naught  but  one  more  tall  tree  in 
the  forest  o'  Dughall.  An'  now  away  with 
yees,  before  ye  have  me  laughin'  in  spite 
o'  meself."] 


m 


EIVBEN   COLD-HBAET 

why  an*  ever  should  I  be  wastin'  me 
good  time  chatterin'  to  yees?  Sure,  'tis 
coaxin'  the  very  pipe  out  o'  me  mouth  ye '11 
be,  next,  with  the  soft  talk  o '  yees.  Listen 
now."] 

YE  mind  what  I  told  yees  about  the  sons  o'  Cor- 
mac?  How  they  all  tried  their  fortune,  wantin' 
to  marry  King  Murdough's  daughter  an'  take 
the  labour  o'  rulin'  his  kingdom  off  his 
shouldhers?  An'  how  Dermond,  that  was  old- 
est, was  beaten  by  fat  Eocha  the  cook;  an* 
Eiveen,  that  came  next,  was  tripped  up  by 
Kevin  the  groom — an'  all  because  they  were 
shamed  o'  wearin'  Cormac's  old  jerkin?  An' 
ye '11  mind  how  Dermond  went  off  an'  found 
fortune  beyant  the  Path  o'  the  Rocks?  Well, 

41 


42  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

then,  'tis  Eiveen  the  Swift  as  I'll  be  afther 
tellin'  about. 

When  the  gate  o'  the  castle  shut  behind  him 
an'  Maive  the  Fair,  that  had  brought  him  the 
purse  o'  money  from  Princess  Maurya,  an'  had 
followed  him  out  o'  the  door,  all  the  wits  o' 
him  couldn't  tell  him  what  way  'twas  best  to 
turn.  He  looked  at  Maive,  thinkin'  to  open  the 
door  for  her  again,  but  she  shook  her  head, 
holdin'  fast  to  his  hand  all  the  while. 

1 '  Come,  then, ' '  says  Eiveen.  ' '  Tis  scant  use 
our  standin'  here  an'  waitin'  for  the  sun  to 
start  our  shadows  on  the  road. "  So  he  dropped 
the  purse  inside  his  huntin'  bag,  an'  led  the  way 
down  the  path  that  went  by  the  river  bank; 
an'  by  him,  in  her  cloak  o'  white  wool  that  was 
fastened  with  a  gold  clasp,  went  Maive  the 
Fair. 

Now  all  that  mornin'  they  met  no  one  on  the 
road,  nor  passed  any  house  at  all;  an'  never  a 
word  more  did  Eiveen  say  to  Maive,  for  there 
were  sore  thoughts  within  him,  o'  Kevin  the 
groom,  an'  o'  the  laughter  in  King  Murdough's 
castle.  At  last  it  came  to  be  the  middle  o'  the 
day,  an'  he  saw  that  Maive  was  walkin'  slow 


EIVEEN  COLD-HEART  43 

behind  him,  bein'  weary;  so  he  sat  down  under 
a  tree  by  the  roadside,  an'  took  out  some  cakes 
from  his  huntin'  bag. 

An'  as  they  were  eatin',  Eiveen  looked  at 
Maive.  An  '  she  was  but  a  slip  of  a  girleen,  with 
brown  eyes  that  saw  straight  into  the  heart  o' 


"Why  did  ye  come  with  me?"  asked  Eiveen. 
"  'Tis  a  hard  road  I  must  thravel,  with  the  spite 
o'  the  Little  People  on  me  for  me  folly." 

"For  to  take  half  o'  the  burden  o'  that  from 
ye,"  says  Maive.  "Maybe  they'll  not  be  angry 
that  long,  if  ye  do  naught  else  to  turn  them 
against  ye." 

"That  may  be  a  thrue  word,"  says  Eiveen, 
"but  'tis  yer  own  choice  to  come,  an'  not  mine 
to  bring  ye.  Fortune  an'  power  is  what  I'm 
searchin'  for,  an'  naught  else." 

"Then  'twas  not  lovin'  Princess  Maurya  ye 
were?"  asked  Maive. 

"Not  I,"  says  Eiveen.  "  'Twas  to  rule  the 
kingdom  I  came." 

Now  quare  it  was  that  afther  hearin*  him  say 
those  words,  Maive  was  no  longer  weary.  She 
ran  to  the  river  side  an*  brought  him  cool 


44  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

wather  for  dhrinkin'  in  her  little  golden  cup; 
an'  gave  him  the  small  sharp  knife  from  her 
girdle,  because  that  he  had  none  o'  his  own; 
an*  last  of  all  she  took  the  huntin'  bag  off  the 
grass,  where  'twas  lyin',  an'  hung  it  round  her 
neck.  Then  she  nodded  to  him  that  'twas  time 
to  be  goin'  on  their  road. 

11  An'  'tis  careful  we'll  be  not  to  vex  the  Little 
People,"  says  she. 

Now  they  hadn't  gone  but  a  bit  o'  the  road 
when  they  met  along  with  a  quare,  crooked  little 
man,  that  was  dhrivin'  a  crooked,  quare  small 
cow. 

"Stand  out,  an'  let  me  have  the  road  for  me 
cow,"  says  he,  in  a  thin,  shakin'  voice. 

"Ye've  yer  share,"  answered  Eiveen. 
"What's  yer  cow  to  me?"  But  Maive  dhrew 
him  by  to  the  grass,  an'  waved  her  hand  to  the 
quare  man  to  be  afther  passin'  on. 

"Far  betther  for  ye  to  turn  back  with  me, 
Maive  the  Fair,"  says  the  little  man.  "  'Tis 
long  wantin'  in  happiness  ye '11  be  with  Eiveen 
Cold-Heart." 

"Ay,"  laughed  Maive,  "but  'tis  not  me  own 
happiness  that  I'm  hopin'  to  find." 


EIVEEN  COLD-HEART  45 

"An'  why  are  ye  callin'  me  Eiveen  Cold- 
Heart,  when  'tis  Eiveen  the  Swift  is  me  name!" 
asked  Eiveen,  angered. 

"Look  in  that  same  heart,  an*  find  yer  an- 
swer/' says  the  man ;  an'  before  they  knew  what 
had  happened,  sure,  he  was  gone  like  the  whiff 
o'  smoke  from  a  pipe. 

"  'Twas  one  o'  the  Little  People,"  says 
Maive.  1 '  'Tis  well  to  speak  them  fair,  if  more 
should  be  on  the  road." 

"Ay,  there's  truth  in  that,"  says  Eiveen. 
An'  so  they  went  on  their  way,  Maive  singin' 
to  him  to  cheer  the  goin'. 

Now  'twas  drawin'  toward  night  when  they 
came  in  sight  of  a  small  child  sittin '  in  the  road, 
where  'twas  narrow,  between  two  high  banks. 

"Make  room  for  us  to  pass,"  says  Eiveen, 
for  he  was  wantin'  to  reach  some  restin'  place 
for  the  night. 

"First  help  me  out  o'  this,"  says  the  child, 
wailin'.  "  'Tis  me  foot  is  caught  in  the  crack 
o'  the  stones." 

"Get  it  out  yer  self,  an'  out  o'  me  way,"  says 
Eiveen.  But  Maive  knelt  down  an'  pulled  the 


46  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

rough  stones  away  with  her  soft  white  hands, 
an'  the  child  stood  up. 

"Far  wiser  were  ye  to  turn  yer  steps  an* 
follow  me,  Maive  the  Fair,"  says  he.  "  "Tis 
but  little  love  ye '11  win  from  Eiveen  Cold- 
Heart." 

Maive  looked  back  along  the  road,  but  she 
shook  her  head  bravely,  not  sayin'  a  word. 
'Twas  Eiveen  was  fierce  at  that. 

"Why  are  ye  callin'  me  out  o'  me  name  I" 
says  he.  "  'Tis  Eiveen  the  Swift  ye '11  be  findin' 
mel"  An'  he  started  to  catch  the  child.  But 
there,  before  he'd  stepped  fair  out  o'  his  tracks, 
he  could  see  no  child  nowhere. 

"  'Tis  the  Little  People  are  vexed  when  ye 
speak  sharp,"  says  Maive. 

"I'd  forgot  that,"  says  Eiveen.  "Next  time 
I'll  have  care  o'  me  words." 

Now  it  grew  fast  darker  as  they  walked  on 
in  the  narrow  path,  an'  the  night  birds  were 
callin'  in  the  trees.  By-an'-by  they  came  to  a 
wider  place,  near  the  river,  where  willows  grew ; 
an'  under  the  boughs  was  a  light  shinin',  faint 
an'  waverin'. 


EIVEEN  COLD-HEART  47 

*  *  'Tis  a  cabin  there, ' '  says  Maive.  ' '  We  may 
get  fire  to  warm  us." 

"Ay,  an'  food  to  eat,  for  I've  no  more  o' 
that  but  one  crust,"  says  Eiveen.  An'  as  they 
came  nearer  they  saw  an  old,  withered-lookin' 
crone  crouchin'  by  the  door-stone.  Eiveen 
spoke  up  to  her — 

"Is  it  fire  on  the  hearth  ye  have?  The  night 
grows  chill." 

"Ay,"  says  she,  "there's  fire  for  warmin' 
Maive  the  Fair,  but  the  flame  would  die  if  ye 
entered  me  cabin,  Eiveen  Cold-Heart." 

At  this  he  turned  on  his  heel,  angry;  but 
Maive  dhrew  him  to  sit  on  the  grass,  an'  heaped 
up  dhry  sticks,  an'  slipped  by  the  old  woman 
into  the  door,  an'  brought  out  a  lighted  turf 
to  make  a  bit  o'  fire  on  the  ground.  Then 
Eiveen  took  out  the  crust,  an'  gave  part  to 
Maive. 

"  'Tis  starved  I  am,"  says  the  old  crone. 
"Have  ye  no  bite  to  spare  for  me?" 

"Nay,"  says  Eiveen,  glad  to  spite  her  for 
misnamin'  o'  him;  but  Maive  broke  her  bit  in 
two,  an'  gave  half  to  the  woman.  Then  she 
brought  wather  from  the  river  in  her  cup.  An* 


48  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

as  she  was  eomin'  back  over  the  grass,  the  crone 
said — 

"Far  safer  were  ye  to  stay  in  me  cabin  with 
me,  Maive  the  Fair,  than  to  be  wearin'  the 
sandals  from  yer  little  white  feet  followin' 
Eiveen  Cold-Heart. " 

"Nay,"  laughed  Maive.  "  'Tis  naught  but 
his  own  word  shall  part  me  from  him  while 
there's  service  I  can  do  to  help  him  to  his  heart's 
wish." 

"If  it's  that  ye 're  waitin'  for,"  says  Eiveen, 
"go  yer  way  where  ye  will.  I'll  reach  fortune 
sooner  without  ye. ' ' 

As  he  spoke  those  hard  words,  the  old  crone 
stood  up  an'  pointed  her  staff  at  Maive,  but  her 
eyes  were  on  Eiveen. 

"Go,  then,"  says  she.  "Find  yer  fortune 
as  ye  will,  an'  see  naught  o'  Maive  but  the  want 
o'  her  an'  the  shadow  o'  her,  till  ye've  warmed 
that  cold  heart  ye  carry." 

An'  as  Eiveen  sprang  up  from  the  log  where 
he'd  been  sittin',  sure,  in  place  o'  Maive  in  her 
white  cloak  was  nothin'  but  a  slendher,  young, 
white  birch  tree;  an'  nowhere  was  cabin,  nor 
crone,  nor  so  much  as  a  spark  o'  fire  burnin* 


EIVEEN  COLD-HEART  49 

at  all.  'Twas  all  alone  he  was  under  the  wil- 
lows, an'  no  sound  but  the  splashin'  o'  the  run- 
nin'  river  over  the  stones  in  the  darkness  o'  the 
night. 

Well,  he  pushed  his  way  here  an*  there 
through  the  trees,  lookin'  for  Maive,  but  no- 
where could  he  spy  a  glint  o'  the  white  cloak; 
an'  at  last,  bein'  too  weary  to  go  farther,  he 
lay  down  on  the  turf  and  slept.  All  through 
the  night  he  dreamed  o'  tryin'  to  reach  a  white 
birch  tree.  'Twas  always  growin'  far  ahead, 
up  a  steep  hillside,  an'  he  could  never  come 
nigh  it. 

When  first  he  woke  in  the  mornin',  he  felt  a 
sharp  wind  blowin'  from  the  north  across  him, 
an'  yet  he  wasn't  cold,  for  over  him  seemed  to 
be  lyin'  Maive 's  cloak  o'  soft  wool.  But  when 
he  rose,  it  was  nowhere  around. 

" Small  use  in  stayin'  here,"  thought  Eiveen; 
so  afther  givin'  one  more  look  among  the  trees 
in  search  o'  Maive,  he  turned  to  the  path  by  the 
river,  an'  went  his  way. 

'Twas  lonesome  walkin',  that.  All  the  time 
he  felt  somethin'  lackin',  an'  not  knowin'  what 
it  was.  By  an'  beyant,  as  noon  was  near,  he 


50  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

came  to  an  inn  by  the  road,  an'  asked  in  it  for 
food. 

"Have  ye  money  to  pay  for  it?"  asked  the 
man. 

Then  of  a  sudden  Eiveen  minded  that  his 
purse  o'  money  was  in  the  huntin'  bag  over 
Maive 's  shouldhers.  He  set  off,  runnin'  back 
by  the  way  he'd  come,  an'  when  'twas  nigh  dusk 
he  came  to  the  willows.  An'  there  was  the  dark 
cabin,  an'  the  crone  crouchin'  on  the  door-stone, 
an'  by  her  a  slim,  white  girleen. 

"Maive!"  he  called,  forgettin'  the  ill  words 
he  'd  given  her.  ' '  Are  ye  not  comin '  with  me  ? ' ' 
But  she  stepped  back  from  him,  an'  the  crone 
laughed. 

* '  'Tis  for  the  bag  ye  came,  an '  not  for  Maive 
the  Fair.  Ask  her  for  it,  an'  begone!" 

Eiveen  hastened  towards  Maive,  an'  right 
then  a  mist  blew  over  his  eyes,  an'  there  was 
naught  but  the  birch  tree  an'  the  huntin'  bag 
on  the  grass  by  it.  He  slung  it  over  his  arm, 
an'  went  off  again.  Too  late  it  was  for  him 
to  be  afther  reachin'  the  inn,  so  he  had  to  sleep 
on  the  road.  An'  again  he  thought  the  cloak 


EIVEEN  COLD-HEART  51 

covered  him  from  the  night  dews  an*  the  cold. 
But  wakin',  it  was  gone. 

At  the  inn  he  bought  bread  and  meat,  an' 
as  he  sat  eatin'  he  couldn't  put  by  the  thought 
o'  Maive  sharin'  her  dhry  crust  with  the  crone. 
An'  he  was  full  o'  wrath  at  the  Little  People 
for  takin'  her  from  him.  Presently  by  came 
ridin'  a  troop  o'  men  in  armour,  all  shinin'; 
an7  their  leader  stopped  an'  spoke  to  Eiveen. 

"What  man's  man  are  ye?" 

"No  man's  man,"  says  Eiveen,  "but  a  king's 
son." 

"What  king  is  that?" 

"Cormac  without  a  Kingdom.  His  second 
son  am  I,  named  Eiveen  the  Swift." 

"Then  mount  an'  ride  with  me,  an'  it  may 
be  we'll  find  fightin'  a  plenty,  an'  win  great 
honour.  Cathal  o'  the  Mountain  am  I,  an'  a 
good  comrade  is  me  heart's  desire." 

So  Eiveen  rode  off  to  the  north  with  Cathal, 
on  a  horse  that  was  given  him.  But  all  through 
the  day  he  was  hearkenin'  for  the  music  o' 
Maive 's  singin',  an'  the  road  was  long  an'  weary 
wantin'  it.  At  last,  far  in  the  afthernoon, 
Eiveen  turned  to  Cathal. 


52  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

"  'Tis  somethin'  I've  left  behind  that  I  miss 
sorely,"  says  he.  "I  must  ride  back  an* 
claim  it." 

"Go,  then,"  says  Cathal,  "an'  join  us  where 
we  halt  for  the  night,  a  bow-shot  farther  up 
this  road,  by  the  runnin'  brook." 

Eiveen  rode  off  swiftly  across  the  wild  coun- 
thry  toward  the  river,  an'  again  at  dusk  he 
came  on  the  cabin.  An'  Maive,  standin'  among 
the  shadows,  faded  as  he  neared  her. 

"Give  me  Maive,  or  'twill  go  ill  with  ye!" 
he  cried  in  anger  to  the  old  crone. 

"Nay,  Eiveen  Cold-Heart,  not  yet  warmed. 
'Tis  but  wrath  at  losin'  what  ye  thought  was 
yer  own  that  brought  ye  back.  Go,  seek  yer 
road  to  fortune!" 

An'  then  the  mist  clouded  all  from  his  eyes, 
an'  naught  remained  for  him  but  just  to  ride 
back  to  Cathal. 

Next  mornin'  they  all  rode  on  to  the  north. 
An'  all  day  Eiveen  kept  seein'  the  brown  eyes 
o'  Maive  in  every  shadow.  When  they  passed 
the  apple-trees  the  flowers  were  like  her  white 
hands,  an'  the  whish  o'  the  wind  was  like  her 
steps  in  the  grass. 


EIVEEN  COLD-HEART  53 

Late  in  the  day  he  turned  to  Cathal,  an*  says 
he— 

"I  must  go  back  for  somethin'.  'Tis  ill  for- 
tune that  I  left  it." 

"Nay,"  says  Cathal,  likin'  it  little.  "If  ye 
go  from  us  again,  ye  need  not  come  back. ' ' 

"Then  will  I  seek  honour  elsewhere,"  says 
Eiveen.  He  sprang  from  the  horse,  an'  tossed 
the  bridle  to  Cathal. 

'  *  Take  back  yer  gift, ' '  says  he.  ' '  'Tis  af ther 
seekin'  me  treasure  I'll  be,  an'  not  givin'  over 
till  I  find  it." 

So  off  he  went,  across  hill  an'  vafley,  toward 
the  far  river.  An'  though  'twas  Eiveen  the 
Swift  he  was,  the  night  was  gone  an'  early  dawn 
breakin'  before  he  reached  the  willows  again. 
Through  the  trees  he  saw  the  cabin,  an'  the  old 
woman,  but  Maive  was  not  there. 

"Maivel"  he  called.    An'  "Maive!" 

* '  Why  have  ye  come  ? ' '  asked  the  crone.  ' '  Are 
ye  seekin'  a  servant  for  carryin'  yer  bag?" 

"Nay,"  says  Eiveen.  "  'Tis  I  would  serve 
her." 

"Then  bring  wather  from  the  river  to  the 


54  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

birch  tree,  for  'tis  droopin'  for  wantin'  that 
same." 

Then  Eiveen  took  his  huntin'  bag  an'  filled 
it  with  wather,  an'  poured  it  on  the  roots.  An' 
for  three  days  he  went  back  an'  forth,  thinkin' 
o'  naught  but  how  to  keep  the  slendher  white 
birch  tree  from  fadin'  away. 

An*  on  the  third  day,  as  he  saw  how  it  was 
witherin',  he  knelt  down  at  his  roots,  sor- 
rowin'. 

"What  would  ye  if  ye  had  but  one  wish  to 
be  granted?"  asked  the  old  crone,  pityin'  him. 

"Maive,"  says  Eiveen. 

"An'  not  fortune  an'  power?" 

"Nay,  'twas  happier  I  was  in  Cormac's  cabin 
with  neither,"  says  Eiveen.  An'  as  he  spoke, 
'twas  two  hot  tears  dropped  on  the  roots  o' 
the  little  tree. 

Then  'twas  as  if  mist  rolled  away,  an'  the 
sun  shone  down  on  him  in  gladness,  for  there  by 
him  stood  Maive,  with  her  brown  eyes  lookin' 
laughin'  into  his  warm  heart. 

An'  together  they  went  back  across  the  hills 
to  the  Lough  o'  the  Eagle,  knowin'  that  the 
Little  People  were  no  more  vexed. 


IV 

THE  QTJESTIN'  o'  CLEENA 

["A  truce  to  fightin ',  now.  Not  one  word  comes 
out  o'  me  mouth  till  ye 're  as  whist  as  lambs 
hearkenin'  for  the  grass  to  grow.  Ay,  see 
now,  how  aisy  it  comes !"] 

MEN  were  sthrong  men  in  those  days,  but  never 
one  at  the  court  o'  King  Murdough  had  come 
nigh  matchin'  Feargus  the  Black,  till  the  sons  o' 
Cormac  set  foot  there.  Many  a  time  he  thought 
how  'twas  the  green  jerkin  an'  the  power  o'  the 
Little  People  backin'  that  same  that  had  lost 
him  the  fight;  though  he'd  wit  enough  to  hold 
his  tongue,  an'  not  risk  the  angerin'  o'  King 
Murdough.  But  'twas  ever  in  his  mind  that 
some  day  he'd  prove  himself  as  good  a  man  as 
Conan  o '  the  Long  Arms. 

Now  there  came  a  day  when  King  Murdough 
had  a  message  in  hand  for  Torcall  the  Dane, 
55 


56  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

that  dwelt  nigh  the  shores  o'  Moyle.  An*  'twas 
a  sharp  word  was  to  be  sent,  an'  full  o'  peril  to 
him  that  carried  it. 

The  King  sat  on  his  high  seat,  when  all  was 
ready,  an'  looked  round  the  hall,  where  stood 
many  to  do  his  biddin'.  An'  in  a  far  corner,  by 
the  wide  fireplace,  Feargus  the  Black  was 
talkin'  with  Cleena,  his  daughter. 

Then  says  King  Murdough,  in  a  quiet  small 
voice,  as  he'd  been  talking  to  himself — 

"Is  there  a  man  can  carry  me  word  to  Torcall 
the  Dane,  an'  bring  me  his  thrue  answer  without 
failin'?" 

Half  o'  those  in  the  hall  paid  no  heed  at  all, 
but  Cleena  caught  the  hand  o '  Feargus. 

tt  'Tis  yer  chance, "  she  whispered.  "Go  for- 
ward an'  claim  the  right." 

So  like  a  flash  Feargus  pushed  through  the 
crowd  an'  knelt  to  King  Murdough;  though 
many  were  drawin'  back,  seein'  that  Torcall  was 
no  child  to  be  reckoned  with. 

"What  would  ye  have?"  asked  the  King. 

"Leave  to  carry  the  word  to  the  shores  o' 
Moyle,"  answered  Feargus. 

Murdough  shook  his  head,  for  'twas  not  in 


THE  QUESTIN'  0'  CLEENA  67 

his  heart  to  lose  a  good  warrior  like  Feargus  to 
the  Danes,  when  a  lesser  would  do  as  well. 

"Such  work  is  not  for  ye,"  he  says.  "Wait, 
for  the  hour  o'  battle  will  come  afther." 

"Give  me  leave  to  go,  King  Murdough,"  says 
Feargus  again. 

"Nay,"  says  King  Murdough,  "for  there's 
many  a  chance  that  who  goes  will  not  return." 

Then  Conan  spoke,  that  had  been  sittin'  by 
the  King — 

"  'Tis  right  he  has.  Give  him  leave  for  seven 
days  an'  seven,  to  go  to  the  shores  o'  Moyle  an' 
to  return;  an'  if  he  conies  again  in  safety,  at  me 
side  shall  he  fight  the  men  o'  Torcall." 

Feargus  looked  at  Conan,  that  was  wed  to 
Princess  Maurya,  an'  for  the  first  time  a  flash 
o'  friendship  was  in  the  meetin'  o'  their  eyes. 

"Come  back  will  I,  Conan  o'  the  Kingdom.  In 
seven  days  an'  seven  more  I'll  claim  that  word 
from  ye." 

With  that  Conan  loosed  the  huntin'  horn  from 
his  belt,  an'  gave  it  to  Feargus. 

"  'Tis  a  token  o'  the  word  I've  given  ye," 
says  he.  ' '  Eeturn  it  in  the  time  set,  an '  lead  the 
battle  with  me.  An'  carryin'  it  ye '11  be  safe 


68  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

from  the  Little  People,  but  use  it  only  in  yer 
sorest  need." 

So  before  night  fell,  Feargus  the  Black  was 
ridin'  away  to  the  sea,  an'  none  with  him  but 
Kevin  the  groom.  An'  Cleena  stood  on  the 
castle  wall,  with  her  black  hair  hangin'  round 
her,  an*  watched  him  go. 

Each  day,  when  it  neared  sunset,  she  went  up 
in  the  tower,  lookin'  for  him;  an'  it  came  to  be 
seven  days  an'  three  more,  then  seven  days  an' 
four  more,  an'  no  word  o'  Feargus. 

Now  the  next  day  to  that  was  a  great  huntin', 
an'  Conan  an'  Princess  Maurya  rode  out  at  the 
head  o'  the  court,  all  dressed  in  gay  colours. 
But  Cleena  watched  from  the  tower,  an'  King 
Murdough  slept. 

When  the  sun  was  turnin'  to  the  west,  an'  all 
noise  o'  the  huntin  was  far  an'  away,  she  saw  a 
man  runnin'  along  the  path  by  the  river.  An* 
as  he  neared  the  ford,  she  saw  'twas  Kevin  the 
groom.  Like  a  hawk  from  the  clouds  she  was  at 
the  gate  before  any  other  could  reach  it. 

" Where  left  ye  Feargus?"  she  cried;  an* 
Kevin  the  groom  crouched  down  on  the  stones, 
fearin'  the  great  dark  eyes  o'  her  that  were 


THE  QUESTIN'  0'  CLEENA  59 

lookin'  through  an'  through  him,  an'  callin  him 
coward  for  leavin'  his  masther. 

11  'Tis  not  for  me  to  say,"  he  whispered,  nigh 
on  spent  with  the  runnin'.  ''When  we  were 
passin'  the  head  o'  the  valley  o'  the  Dark 
Lough,  he  dropped  the  horn  o'  Conan;  an'  when 
he  turned  back  to  search  for  it,  for  'twas  his 
token  from  the  prince,  I  lost  sight  o'  him,  an' 
could  find  naught  o'  him,  though  I  called  many 
times  over." 

"An'  yer  horses?"  asked  Cleena. 

"When  I  came  back  to  where  I  had  tied  them, 
they  were  gone,  an'  no  trace  to  be  seen.  'Tis 
the  Little  People  have  stolen  them  all  away. 
Ay,  that  it  is." 

Then  Cleena  turned  to  those  in  the  courtyard, 
an'  there  were  not  many,  for  all  the  fightin' 
men  were  off  at  the  huntin',  an'  says  she — 

"Who  dares  go  back  to  the  Valley  o'  the  Dark 
Lough  to  find  Feargus ?" 

But  none  answered.  An'  as  for  Kevin  the 
groom,  he  slipped  away,  for  fear  o'  bein'  made 
to  show  the  way. 

"Is  there  not  one  man  among  ye  to  be  friend 
to. Feargus?"  asked  Cleena,  lookin'  from  one  to 


60  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

the  other,  an'  waitin'  for  who  should  step  for- 
ward. But  a  hard  man  an*  a  proud  was  Fear- 
gus,  an'  now,  in  his  need,  none  dared  brave  the 
Little  People  to  aid  him. 

Then  came  scorn  to  the  eyes  o '  Cleena,  an '  she 
turned  an'  passed  them,  holdin'  her  cloak  to  her 
that  it  might  not  touch  them. 

"All  this  shall  King  Murdough  hear  when  he 
wakes;  an'  Princess  Maurya,  when  she  comes 
from  the  huntin';  and  Conan  o'  the  Kingdom 
shall  reckon  with  ye.  But  for  me,  I  go  alone  to 
seek  Feargus  the  Black,  where  ye  dare  not  fol- 
low." 

With  that  she  went  into  the  stable,  an'  there 
lay  Cian,  the  waitin'  boy,  sound  sleepin'.  As  she 
brushed  by  him,  he  woke  an'  sprang  up. 

"What  would  Lady  Cleena f"  he  asked. 

"A  horse,  that  I  may  ride  to  seek  for  Fear- 
gus, who  is  lost  by  the  Dark  Lough." 

"Is  there  no  man  to  go?"  asked  Cian. 

"Nay,"  says  she,  "none  but  children  trem- 
blin'  for  fear  o'  the  Little  People." 

"Then  will  I  ride  with  ye,"  cried  Cian. 
"Though  I  have  but  a  boy's  strength  in  fightin', 


THE  QUESTIN'  O'  CLEENA  61 

yet  was  me  mother  a  wise  woman,  an*  taught 
me  many  a  cunnin'  charm." 

So  Cian  brought  out  two  horses,  an'  together 
they  rode  out  o'  the  gate  an'  across  the  ford, 
Cleena  never  lookin'  back  to  the  castle.  All 
through  the  night  they  rode,  pressin'  on  with 
naught  but  the  noise  o'  the  ripplin'  water  for 
guidin';  an'  in  the  mornin'  there  still  lay  many 
a  mile  before  them.  Yet  they  never  dhrew  rein, 
for  'twas  the  sixth  day  afther  the  seventh,  an' 
there  was  mountains  to  pass. 

As  the  sun  went  down  the  west,  they  saw  a 
deep  valley  before  them,  an'  in  it  a  lough,  with 
a  bit  of  an  island  in  it;  an'  the  wather  was  as 
smooth  an'  dark  as  black  marble. 

Cleena  slipped  from  her  horse,  an'  Cian  the 
same,  an'  together  they  tied  the  horses  to  a  tree, 
Cian  twistin'  the  bridles  in  a  strange  knot,  that 
the  Little  People  should  have  no  power  for  un- 
tyin'  them. 

"Where  now,  Lady  Cleena?"  say  Cian. 

"Down  yon  glen,  to  seek  Feargus,"  says  she. 

"An'  I  with  ye,"  says  Cian. 

"Nay,"  answered  Cleena.     "I  bid  ye  wait 


62  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

here,  that  there  shall  be  one  to  tell  all  to  Prin- 
cess Maurya  if  I  come  not  back  by  mornin'." 

"Then  hearken  to  me,"  says  Cian.  ''Trust 
naught  in  man's  shape  till  he  pass  through  fire 
an'  wather;  an'  touch  the  hand  o'  none  ye  meet, 
be  it  Feargus  himself." 

So  Cleena  caught  her  cloak  o'  gold  an'  scarlet 
over  her  arm,  an'  went  from  him,  in  the  light  o' 
sunset.  An'  soon  she  came  to  a  place  where  the 
trees  grew  closer,  an'  there  was  scant  room  for 
her  to  pass  under  their  boughs.  But  as  she  bent, 
she  saw  a  glint  o'  gold  in  a  heap  o'  dead  leaves, 
an'  there  lay  the  huntin'  horn  o'  Conan. 

'Twas  quick  up  in  her  hand,  with  its  cord 
passed  round  her  white  neck;  an'  the  courage  o' 
ten  came  into  her  heart.  Down  the  valley  she 
passed,  lookin'  every  way  for  a  sight  o'  Fear- 
gus, an'  callin'  his  name  now  an'  again;  but 
none  answered. 

'Twas  mortal  dark  down  at  the  wather 's  edge, 
an'  what  way  to  turn  was  more  nor  she  knew. 

"  'Tis  sore  needin'  help  I  am,"  says  she;  an' 
with  that  she  blew  a  soft  note  on  the  horn.  It 
echoed  all  down  the  lough,  like  the  tremblin'  of 
a  bell,  an'  before  it  had  fair  died  away,  she  saw 


THE  QUESTIN'  0'  CLEENA  63 

on  the  sand  a  little  boat  o '  skins,  like  the  fishers 
use,  with  a  paddle  swingin'  in  the  wather. 
Cleena  waited  for  no  thinkin'  but  stepped  in  an' 
paddled  toward  the  island. 

There  was  no  sign  o '  life  on  it,  but  she  tied  the 
boat  to  a  bush  that  hung  over  low,  with  that 
same  knot  o'  Cian's.  Then  from  the  fold  o'  her 
girdle  she  took  flint  an'  steel  that  he'd  given  her, 
an'  made  a  bit  o'  fire  to  light  a  dhry  branch  that 
lay  handy.  With  thai  torch  she  went  on,  an' 
soon  found  the  island  cut  in  two  by  a  narrow 
ditch  o '  wather.  Howsomever,  she  leaped  over 
it,  an'  again  called  Feargus. 

There  was  a  rustlin'  in  the  leaves,  an'  a  voice 
answerin' — 

"Cleena!    Daughter!" 

"Father!  Come!"  she  cried  again;  an'  the 
light  from  the  torch  fell  on  the  very  face  o' 
Feargus.  She  was  just  goin'  to  run  to  him, 
when  sudden  she  thought  what  Cian  had  said, 
an'  she  slipped  back  past  the  ditch,  holdin'  the 
torch  to  light  him.  He  came  to  the  edge,  reachin' 
out  his  hand. 

'  *  Help  me  to  cross.  'Tis  mortal  weary  I  am, ' ' 
says  he. 


64  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

"Nay,"  says  Cleena,  "come  ye  over."  But 
with  that  word  he  was  naught  but  dhriven  mist. 

"  'Twas  his  shadow,"  thought  Cleena;  an* 
turnin',  she  went  the  other  way,  still  callin'  on 
Feargus.  By  an'  beyant  she  heard  a  branch 
breaking  an'  again  a  dark  figure  answered  her 
callin';  an'  again  'twas  the  likeness  o'  Feargus. 

Now  here  was  no  wather  to  cross ;  so  quick,  to 
try  was  it  a  thrue  man,  she  held  down  her  torch 
an'  set  fire  to  some  withered  leaves. 

"Come  to  me  by  that,"  says  she. 

"Give  me  yer  hand  first,"  says  the  other, 
movin'  near. 

"Nay,"  says  Cleena;  an'  'twas  as  if  smoke 
blew  away  an'  left  no  man  behind.  Just  then 
she  heard  a  sound  at  her  feet;  an'  there,  lyin'  in 
the  grass,  was  Feargus,  again,  bound  hand  an' 
foot. 

"Loose  me,  if  it  be  Cleena,  an'  not  the  ban- 
shee," he  groaned. 

"Wait,"  says  Cleena,  runnin'  back  to  the 
lough's  edge,  an'  dippin'  the  scarf  from  her 
neck  in  the  wather.  'Twas  with  fire  an'  wather 
she  returned  to  Feargus,  an'  with  the  burnin' 
end  o'  her  brand  she  parted  the  cords  that 


THE  QUESTIN'  O'  CLEENA  65 

bound  him.  Seein'  that  he  never  flinched  at  the 
fire,  she  quenched  the  sparks  on  his  coat  with  the 
wet  scarf.  Still  Feargus  was  before  her,  an*  she 
began  to  believe  it  himself. 

"Bise  an'  follow, "  says  she;  an'  he  obeyed, 
seemin'  half  sleepin'.  She  led  the  way  to  the 
boat,  not  lookin'  back  till  she  wars  in  it ;  an'  then, 
when  she  turned,  in  the  gloom  stood  three  Fear- 
guses,  each  bendin'  forward  to  enter  the  boat, 
an*  naught  to  show  which  was  her  father.  A 
sore  tremblin'  came  over  her;  an'  then  she 
raised  the  horn  an'  blew  a  brave  blast. 

Smoke  cleared  away  overhead,  an'  mist 
drifted  across  the  wather,  but  the  thrue  Feargus 
stepped  into  the  end  o'  the  boat,  an'  sat  quiet 
while  she  paddled  back  to  the  shore.  Sort  o' 
dazed  he  was  still,  as  he  followed  her  up  the 
glen  to  where  Cian  was  waitin'  with  their 
horses,  but  not  until  he  was  fair  in  the  moon- 
light outside  did  he  come  to  his  right  senses. 

11  'Tis  yerself,  Cleena!"  says  he. 

* '  Ay, ' '  says  she.  * '  A  f ar  road  have  I  come  to 
find  ye,  father." 

"An'  'tis  love  I'll  be  owin'  ye  all  me  days  for 


66  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

that  same/'  says  he.  " Where  is  Kevin  the 
groom,  an'  me  horses?" 

"  'Tis  Kevin  is  not  worth  the  words  ye 're 
wastin'  on  him,"  says  she.  "An'  as  for  the 
horses,  'tis  himself  says  that  the  Little  People 
had  taken  them  while  he  was  seekin'  ye.  Take 
ye  mine,  an'  save  yer  honour  with  Prince  Conan, 
an'  I'll  ride  slow  with  Cian." 

' '  Nay, ' '  says  the  lad.  ' '  Try  first  the  power  o ' 
the  huntin'  horn." 

Cleena  took  it  from  her  neck  an'  held  it  out  to 
Feargus.  An'  at  the  blast  he  blew,  out  o'  the 
forest  came  the  horses  that  had  been  lost  by 
Kevin. 

"Lose  no  time,"  called  Cian.  "  'Tis  nigh  on 
mornin',  an'  this  seven  days  afther  the  sev- 
enth." 

"Then  haste's  our  word,"  says  Feargus. 

An'  quick  into  the  saddles  they  sprung;  an' 
swift  they  rode  across  the  hills  to  the  road  up 
the  river.  'Twas  a  long  weary  ride  was  before 
them,  but  on  they  pushed,  waitin'  for  neither 
rest  nor  food;  an'  as  the  sun  neared  the  trees  to 
the  west,  they  rode  to  the  ford. 

An'  there  stood  Conan  o'  flie  Kingdom,  with 


THE  QUESTIN'  0'  CLEENA  67 

Princess  Maurya  by  him.  Sure,  Feargus  sprang 
down  an'  held  out  the  horn.  An'  says  he — 

"Torcall  refuses  tribute,  Prince  Conan;  but 
'tis  as  yer  friend  I'll  fight  at  yer  side  in  the 
battle  where  we  overcome  him.  For  if  the  Little 
People  helped  ye  at  yer  need,  sure,  'tis  meself 
would  never  be  here  but  for  the  aidin'  of  a  slip 
of  a  girl  an'  a  bit  of  a  lad." 

So  they  clasped  hands  like  sthrong  men;  an* 
from  the  warriors  o'  King  Murdough  came  a 
great  shout;  an'  into  the  castle  they  went  with 
high  honour. 

["But  Kevin  the  groom?" 

"Sure,  he  slipped  out  o'  the  tale  entirely, 
for  very  shame;  an'  that's  why  I  never 
knew  the  bad  end  he  came  to."] 


ETHLENN  o'  THE  MIST 

["Give  me  half  a  quartEer  of  a  minute  for 
'thinkin',  now;  an'  hear  the  rale  old  tale  I'll 
be  afther  tellin'  yees,  o'  years  long  gone  an' 
far  away. ' '] 

IN  the  days  when  King  Murdough  held  power 
far  an'  wide,  the  River  o'  White  Rapids  flowed 
from  the  far  hills  an'  plunged  down  the  cliffs 
into  the  Sea  o '  Moyle.  'Twas  naught  but  a  dot- 
teen  of  a  sthream  where  it  started,  as  it  might 
ha'  dhropped  out  o'  the  rain  clouds;  but  afther 
it  reached  the  deep  glen  in  the  forest,  it  ran  dark 
an'  swift,  an'  was  ill  to  pass  over,  barrin'  'twas 
at  Ath  nan  Ciar. 

The  meanin '  o '  that  same  was  the  Ford  o '  the 
Shadow;  an*  'twas  a  braver  hunter  nor  most 
that  would  near  it  afther  sundown,  for  dread  o' 


ETHLENN  0'  THE  MIST  69 

meetin'  Ethlenn  o'  tlie  Mist.  So  it  happened 
that  few  had  seen  the  grey  roof  o'  her  dwellin', 
bein'  content  with  the  tales  told  of  it.  Yet  was 
there  that  in  the  tales  which  made  many  a  man 
dhream  o*  passin'  the  ford  an*  winnin'  her. 

Now  'twas  late  in  the  year,  an'  beginnin'  to  be 
cool  at  dusk,  when  a  man  on  a  black  horse  came 
ridin'  up  the  long  hill  slopes  an'  through  the  low 
bushes  toward  Ath  nan  Ciar ;  an'  no  fearin'  was 
in  his  heart.  'Twas  a  windless  night,  an'  sound 
o '  his  comin'  carried  far ;  even  to  where  Ethlenn 
sat  in  her  hall  with  her  three  maids,  before  a 
pile  o'  burnin'  logs. 

One  was  spinnin'  threads  o'  silver  like  moon- 
light on  wather;  an'  one  was  standin'  weavin' 
in  a  loom ;  an'  the  third,  that  was  kneelin'  in  the 
firelight,  was  playin'  on  a  golden  harp  the  song 
o'  the  sea  waves  breakin'  on  the  shelvin'  sand. 
But  Ethlenn  sat  lookin'  into  the  leapin'  flames. 

An'  says  the  one  that  was  spinnin' — 

"A  sthrong  lad  was  he  that  came  in  the  dawn, 
but  where  is  he  now?" 

Then  the  girl  that  wove  in  the  loom  an- 
swered— 

"He  sits  by  the  ford,  with  a  cold  wound  in  his 


70  THE  SONS  0J  CORMAC 

arm.  An'  'twill  be  a  lesson  to  Mm  to  hold  his 
hands  from  Ethlenn  o'  the  Mist." 

But  Ethlenn  said  naught. 

Then  spoke  again  the  maid  who  was  spin- 
nin' — 

"An'  sure,  'twas  a  stout  soldier  that  waded 
the  ford  at  the  noon,  but  where  is  he  now?" 

The  girl  that  knelt  playin'  sad  on  the  harp 
answered  her — 

"He  lies  by  the  Eiver  o'  White  Eapids,  with 
the  cold  above  his  heart;  an'  never  again  will  he 
think  to  grasp  Ethlenn  o'  the  Mist  an'  force  her 
to  follow  him.  Like  clear  glass  in  runnin' 
wather  she  was  gone  from  his  sight;  an'  the 
chill  touch  is  with  him  in  rememberin'." 

An'  Ethlenn  laid  her  little  white  hand — like  a 
blossom  it  was — on  a  knife  that  hung  nTEer 
girdle,  gleamin'  like  clear  crystal.  At  last  she 
spoke — lookin'  in  the  deep  o'  the  fire. 

"  'Tis  the  sound  o'  horse's  feet  beyant  the 
ford  I'm  hearin'." 

The  spinner  rested  her  distaff  an'  hearkened. 

"Nay,"  says  she;  "  'tis  but  the  beatin'  o'  the 
surf  at  the  foot  o'  the  cliff." 


ETHLENN  0'  THE  MIST  71 

"An*  I  hear  the  voice  of  a  man  urgin'  his 
horse  to  the  ford." 

The  weaver  leaned  her  head  back  an*  was  still, 
while  the  fire-sparks  flew  up. 

"  'Tis  naught  but  the  moanin'  o'  the  night 
owls,  Lady  Ethlenn,"  says  she,  an*  turned  to 
her  loom. 

"An*  sure,  'tis  the  clankin'  of  armour  is  in  me 
ears,  an'  one  stands  by  the  door  waitin'  to 
knock ! ' '  called  out  Ethlenn. 

"Who  dares?"  cried  the  harp  player, 
sthrikin'  a  wild  note ;  an*  all  sprang  to  their  feet 
as  they  heard  a  sudden  rappin'  without. 

None  moved,  but  in  another  breath  the  door 
was  flung  wide,  an'  on  the  threshold  stood  a  tall, 
sthrong  soldier.  The  light  from  within  shone  on 
his  armour,  all  made  o'  linked  silver  rings;  an* 
his  face  was  that  o'  one  well  used  to  com- 
mandin'.  He  looked  for  a  time  at  Ethlenn,  won- 
dherin'  no  more  at  the  tales  told  o'  her  beauty. 

She  glanced  at  him,  careless  like,  an'  turned 
back  to  her  seat  by  the  hearth — her  pale  brown 
hair  fallin'  wavin'  round  her  from  the  circlet  o' 
gold  on  her  head  like  the  cloud  above  a  wather- 
fall;  an'  the  long  lashes  drooped  over  her  dark 


72  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

eyes — as  she  had  no  thought  o'  the  sthranger  in 
her  haU. 

An'  the  spinner  sent  her  distaff  twirlin'  on; 
an'  on  flew  the  shinin'  shuttle  through  the  web  in 
the  loom;  but  the  third — an'  Deoin  was  her 
name — let  her  harp  fall  clangin'  to  the  floor  as 
she  faced  him. 

"Yer  will?"  says  she,  comin'  forward. 

"  'Tis  by  no  will  o'  mine  I  come,  but  for  car- 
ryin'  a  word  from  King  Murdough,  over-lord  on 
the  shores  o '  Moyle, ' '  answered  the  warrior. 

"Is  he  over-lord  o'  the  mist  an'  the  shadow!" 
asked  the  one  weavin',  standin'  slendher  an* 
proud  at  the  loom. 

"Nay;  an'  for  that  am  I  come  to  Lady  Eth- 
lenn  to  ask  o'  her  what  none  other  can  grant." 

At  that  Ethlenn  turned  her  head  an'  signed 
him  to  a  bench  before  her. 

"Yer  name?"  she  asked. 

* '  Cathal  o '  the  Mountain, ' '  answered  the  man, 
seatin '  himself.  An '  a  chill  f eelin '  went  through 
the  sthrong  heart  o'  him,  when  he  reached  out 
his  hands  to  warm  them,  an'  found  no  more  heat 
in  the  flames  than  if  they'd  been  rays  o'  moon- 
light. But  Ethlenn  laughed. 


ETHLENN  0'  THE  MIST  73 

"An'  what  will  King  Murdough  of  Ethlenn?" 
"  'Tis  yer  power  for  aidin'  Conan  o'  the 
Kingdom  lie  asks,"  says  Cathal,  settin'  his  mind 
not  to  fear  her.  "Many  days  ago  he  sent  to 
Torcall  the  Dane,  demandin'  the  tribute  due. 
An'  Torcall,  seein'  in  his  harbour  the  long  ships 
o'  Sitric  Silverbeard,  his  brother,  laughed  in 
scornin'  o'  Murdough;  an'  Feargus  the  Black, 
who  rode  with  the  message,  could  ill  win  back  to 
the  King.  So  there  was  much  talkin'  o'  war 
through  the  land,  an'  many  men  o'  stout  heart 
gathered  round  the  castle  o'  Murdough.  'Twas 
thirty  an'  more  that  rode  with  me;  an'  many 
more  with  other  chiefs.  An'  with  Conan  to  lead, 
we  took  the  road  o '  the  river  to  the  sea. 

"Now  Feargus,  that  before  had  been  enemy 
to  Prince  Conan,  fought  beside  him  as  by  a 
brother;  an'  each  made  a  vow  to  stand  by  the 
other  in  war  an'  in  time  o'  peace,  swearin'  be- 
fore the  crossed  staff  an'  serpent.  Then  Kevin 
the  groom,  that  Feargus  had  beaten  for  mis- 
treatin'  his  horse,  slipped  off  an'  told  all  to  Tor- 
call,  within  the  town.  HI  be  to  him  for  that 
same,  for  by  night  came  the  Danes,  an'  took 
Feargus  sleepin',  an'  carried  him  on  a  boat,  an' 


74  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

so  to  the  Long  Wave,  where  Sitric  has  him  in 
keepin',  threatenin'  to  put  knife  to  his  heart  if 
Conan  tries  rescue,  or  does  harm  to  the  town  o' 
Torcall." 

"But  why  come  to  me?"  asked  Ethlenn. 

"For  this.  All  men  know  the  power  of  Eth- 
lenn over  mist  an*  shadow;  an'  would  ye  come 
with  me  to  the  shore,  an'  dhraw  down  clouds  to 
hide  the  sea,  we  might  reach  the  ships  an'  bring 
Feargus  safe  out  o'  their  hands.  'Tis  no  aid  in 
fightin'  we're  askin',  but  the  chance  for  fair 
battlin'  with  the  Danes." 

Ethlenn  rose  to  her  feet,  an'  in  her  eyes  was 
the  comin'  storm.  Her  dress,  that  had  been 
white  as  foam  undher  the  moon,  now  showed 
grey  as  wreaths  o'  fog  creepin'  up  on  the  sand, 
an'  her  dagger  seemed  a  sharp  icicle. 

"Met  ye  any  on  yer  way?"  she  asked. 

"Ay,"  answered  Cathal.  "Two  from  the 
court  o'  Murdough,  that  started  on  this  same 
errand  to  ye,  but  fell  by  the  way.  Wherefore 
had  I  more  need  to  press  on." 

"An'  was  it  for  that  sake  I  was  to  be  dragged 
from  shelter  an'  carried  prisoner  to  Prince 
Conan?"  cried  Ethlenn,  the  wind  risin'  sudden 


ETHLENN  0'  THE  MIST  75 

an'  shriekin'  round  the  outer  walls  as  she  spoke. 
An'  the  three  that  served  her  left  their  places 
an'  came  nigher.  But  Cathal  stood  firm. 

"May  sore  hurt  come  to  them  that  would  have 
done  it,"  says  he.  "Lyin'  knaves  are  any  who 
put  ill  deeds  at  the  door  o'  Conan.  'Tis  o'  yer 
free  will  ye  shall  come  or  stay.  As  for  those 
who  came  before  me,  me  hand  shall  pay  them." 

Then  Ethlenn  was  silent,  an*  all  that  looked 
to  her.  Even  the  risin'  wind  waited  on  her 
words.  At  last  she  spoke — 

"That  payin'  is  done,  Cathal  o'  the  Moun- 
tain. 'Tis  for  many  a  day  they  will  be  mindin ' 
the  reckonin'  of  Ethlenn.  An'  here  is  me  word 
for  yer  fair  speakin'.  Here  stand  I,  Ethlenn  o' 
the  Mist;  an'  a  sthrong  warrior  are  ye,  Cathal. 
If  ye  can  set  me  on  yer  horse  fairly,  I  will  ride 
with  ye  to  the  camp  o'  Conan,  an'  raise  mist  to 
cover  the  waves.  If  ye  fail,  ye  shall  go  from 
here  without  hurt;  an'  if  ye  win,  I  look  to  ye  to 
give  me  free  returnin'  when  I  have  aided  Prince 
Conan." 

Now  Cathal  was  watchin'  close,  an'  before  she 
had  fair  ended  speakin'  he  shouted — "Me  word 
for  it!"  an'  sprang  to  grasp  her.  The  three 


76  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

maids  laughed  an'  turned  each  to  her  task,  not 
fearin'  for  Ethlenn. 

As  Cathal's  arms  met  where  she  had  been, 
Ethlenn  was  gone.  He  sudden  remembered  the 
tales  told  o'  her;  how  she  could  change  her 
seemin'  in  the  eyes  o'  those  that  would  hold  her, 
by  the  power  lyin'  in  her  shinin'  knife.  So  for 
all  the  seemin'  he  held  fast,  knowin'  that  she 
was  there,  an'  feelin'  what  he  could  not  see. 

When  he  still  kept  his  hold,  the  first  maid 
laughed,  an'  there  in  his  arms  lay  a  sheaf  o' 
red  roses,  an'  their  sharp  thorns  pierced  his 
armour. 

Still  he  held  fast.  Then  the  second  maid 
called  out  a  wild  word,  an'  the  roses  were  gone, 
an'  through  his  arms  fluttered  many  little  small 
birdeens,  flyin'  in  his  face,  an'  fair  takin'  his 
breath.  Yet  quick  he  caught  one  in  his  hand 
an'  clasped  it  close,  for  all  it  pecked  him  like  a 
wild  fierce  thing.  Then  Deoin  sthruck  her  harp, 
an'  the  birds  were  away,  an'  rain  an'  chilly  sleet 
were  beatin'  over  him,  an'  all  the  hall  was  dark. 
He  came  nigh  to  lettin'  go,  then,  but  in  his  palm 
he  caught  some  dhrops  o'  wather,  an'  covered 
it  sure  with  the  other. 


ETHLENN  O'  THE  MIST  77 

Then  all  disappeared,  an'  the  pale  fire  shone 
out  again;  an'  while  there  was  still  no  sign  of 
Ethlenn,  he  sudden  felt  somethin'  catch  in  the 
rings  o'  Eis  armour.  Swift  he  put  down  his 
hand,  an'  'twas  the  ice  cold  hilt  o'  the  crystal 
dagger.  An'  as  he  grasped  it,  there  stood 
Ethleen  with  fear  in  her  eyes. 

"Give  me  the  dagger!"  she  cried,  "an'  I'll 
ride  with  ye.  'Tis  o '  no  use  to  ye  alone." 

"When  ye 're  fair  seated  on  me  horse," 
laughed  Cathal,  knowin'  that  he'd  won. 

Without  a  word  more,  she  was  out  o'  the  hall 
like  a  blown  feather,  to  where  the  black  horse 
was  waitin'.  Cathal  leaped  to  the  saddle  an' 
swung  her  up  before  him;  then  put  the  knife 
in  her  girdle  o'  threaded  pearls.  Off  they  gal- 
loped under  clear  moonlight,  past  the  Ford  o' 
the  Shadow;  an'  swift  along  the  river  bank  to 
where  Conan's  men  were  gathered. 

There  was  cryin'  o'  welcome,  but  Conan  lost 
no  time.  Quick  he  led  her  to  the  shore,  an' 
pointed  to  the  warships  lyin'  dark  under  the 
moon. 

"Give  us  the  boar  din'  o'  them,  an'  choose 


78  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

what  reward  ye  will  from  King  Murdough, 
Lady  Ethlenn,"  says  he. 

Then  the  smile  glinted  in  her  eyes,  an'  she 
ran  her  white  hands  through  her  silken  hair; 
an'  before  any  knew  whence  it  came,  the  sea 
was  covered  with  heavy  fog,  an'  the  moon 
peered  among  clouds.  Conan  an'  his  men  ran 
to  the  waitin'  boats,  an'  paddled  from  shore; 
but  Ethlenn  sat  on  a  rock,  partin'  her  wavin' 
hair.  Once  an'  twice  came  the  clashin'  o' 
swords  on  shields  o'  bronze,  through  the  dark- 
ness; an'  at  last  up  rose  a  wild  shoutin'  for 
joy,  an'  the  boats  swept  inshore,  with  Feargus 
in  the  foremost.  Conan  o'  the  Kingdom  sprang 
to  the  beach  an'  spoke  to  her  that  had  given 
help— 

"Have  yer  will;  for  'tis  ye  that  gave  us  the 
victory, "  says  he. 

"Leave  to  return  whence  I  was  brought," 
says  she,  an'  would  have  naught  else.  Then 
Cathal  spoke. 

"It  is  right  o'  mine  to  carry  her  home." 

The  two  looked  long  in  each  other's  eyes,  an' 
at  last  Ethlenn  shook  her  head. 

"Nay,  Cathal.     Give  me  the  horse,  but  'tis 


ETHLENN  0'  THE  MIST  79 

for  ye  to  stay  here  for  the  fightin'.  When  the 
battle  is  won,  come  in  friendship  where  ye  came 
doubtin'."  Springin'  to  the  saddle,  she  rode 
away  up  the  river  bank.  But  in  the  hand  o' 
Cathal  lay  the  dagger  o'  crystal,  an'  he  was 
content. 

["But  what  happened  after  the  fighting  was 
over?" 

"Ah,  sure,  'tis  unsafe  to  be  guessin' 
about  Ethlenn.  She  might  hear  yees.  So 
be  off,  an'  make  yer  feet  yer  f rinds."] 


VI 

WILD  APPLES  AN'  GOLDEN  GEAIN 

["Ay,  wakin',  sleepin',  or  dhreamin',  'tis  for- 
ever an'  more  tales  ye'd  be  afther  heark- 
enin'  to.  Wait  till  the  day  when  I  tell  yees 
what  came  once  of  askin'  for  too  many  o' 
them.  No,  not  the  now.  'Tis  a  far  other 
sort  I've  in  mind  this  morn's  morninV] 

'TWAS  Keevan  Sthrong-arm  ruled  the  men  o' 
the  north,  toward  the  sea-loughs.  High  up  on 
the  steep  o'  the  cliff  stood  his  walled  tower;  an' 
from  the  top  o'  that  same  he  could  see  far  out 
across  the  old  sea,  where  few  ships  ventured, 
barrin'  the  Danes  o'  the  North  Isles. 

Now  'twas  for  no  fearin'  o'  the  Danes  for 
himself  that  he  made  thick  walls  an'  sthrong 
doors  to  his  tower;  but  for  guardin'  his 
daughter,  Ardanna,  that  was  sought  by  many, 
far  an'  wide.  A  wilful  maid  was  that,  for  a 

80 


WILD  APPLES  AN'  GOLDEN  GRAIN      81 

king's  daughter — an'  ill  fared  it  with  all  who 
came  courtin'  her.  Many  a  stout  young  war- 
rior she  turned  away  sorrowin' ;  yet  all  the  days 
she  was  growin'  fairer  an'  more  contrary. 

At  last  came  an  hour  when  Keevan  sat  in  his 
high  seat  an'  looked  down  the  long  room.  An* 
'twas  none  but  greybeards  he  saw. 

"What  has  come  to  me  fightin'  men?''  says 
he  to  Manis,  that  was  wisest  o'  those  in  his 
court. 

"  "Us  for  lovin'  Ardanna  too  well  they've 
fared  off  in  the  world  to  seek  forgettin',"  says 
Manis,  shakin'  his  old  head. 

Keevan  stood  up  in  a  rage,  an*  turned  to 
Ardanna,  where  she  sat  braidin*  a  ribbon  into 
her  dark  hair,  an'  smilin'  to  her  own  thought. 

"  'Tis  wed  to  a  sthrong  man  ye  should  have 
been  this  many  a  day  past!"  he  cried,  "an'  'tis 
long  enough  I've  had  patience  with  ye!  Now 
'tis  a  task  I'll  be  afther  settin',  an'  that  man 
who  wins  through  it  shall  ye  wed,  be  he  young 
or  old,  warrior  or  herd  boy.  Else  shall  ye  serve 
in  field  an'  kitchen,  bringin'  wood  an'  carryin' 
wather,  with  none  to  aid. ' ' 

Then  the  laughin'  left  the  eyes  of  Ardanna. 


82  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

Small  wish  had  she  for  labouring  yet  anger  was 
overpowerin'  all  else  in  her  heart,  an'  at  her 
lips  were  Iscornin'  words  as  she  glanced  at  the 
old  men  sittin'  half  sleepin'.  Half  minded  was 
she  to  lay  aside  rich  robes  an'  rare  jewels,  an' 
be  off  to  draw  wather  by  the  river's  shore, 
stayin'  free  from  marryin'. 

A  sudden  stirrin'  came  at  the  outer  gate;  an' 
in  another  stroke  o'  time  two  men  were  standin' 
within  the  door  o'  the  great  hall  o'  Keevan 
Sthrong-arm.  Dressed  in  green  they  were,  an' 
so  like  that  scarce  could  any  have  told  one  from 
^the  other.  Each  had  a  bright  sword  hangin' 
at  his  side;  an'  over  their  broad  shouldhers  fell 
the  long,  yellow  hair,  curlin'  fine  as  gold. 

Ardanna  stood  lookin'  at  them,  half  fearin' 
what  might  be  comin';  but  Keevan  strode  down 
to  greet  them. 

"  'Tis  in  a  good  hour  ye've  come  to  me  roof," 
says  he.  "I've  somewhat  to  tell  in  the  ears 
o'  them  that  choose  to  hearken,  be  they  friends 
or  foes.  Here  stands  Ardanna,  daughter  o' 
mine.  Fair  to  see  is  she,  yet  through  her  folly 
have  many  good  men  gone  from  me.  Hear  this 
word — not  given  lightly.  The  hand  of  Ardanna 


WILD  APPLES  AN'  GOLDEN  GRAIN      83 

shall  be  for  him  who  gathers  wild  apples  an' 
harvests  golden  grain  in  the  high  valley  o '  Rinn, 
an'  brings  them  to  me." 

The  foremost  o'  the  two  turned  eager  to  his 
brother — 

"  'Tis  a  quest  for  us,"  says  he. 

1  'Ay,"  answered  the  other,  "if  it  so  please 
the  Lady  Ardanna." 

Wondherin'  she  was  at  seein'  two  men  so  near 
like  in  face  an'  bearin'. 

''An'  if  ye  both  win  through?"  she  asked. 

"Then  shall  ye  set  us  another  task,  an'  it 
may  be  one  afther  that.  No  thought  had  we  o' 
provin'  strength  against  each  other;  but  now 
must  it  be  seen  which  of  us  be  the  man  worthy 
of  Ardanna  the  wayward." 

'Twas  red  as  sundown  her  cheeks  grew  at  that 
word,  knowin'  it  well  merited ;  but  Keevan  shook 
with  a  mighty  laugh. 

"As  ye  have  said,  so  shall  it  be,"  says  he. 
"An'  now  what  man's  men  are  ye?" 

"The  men  o'  no  man  livm',"  says  the  fore- 
most, "now  that  Ingri,  our  father,  lives  no 
longer,  an'  the  home  of  our  dwellin'  lies  wasted 
with  fire.  Fionn  am  I,  an'  this,  at  me  side,  is 


84  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

Fergal.  In  the  same  hour  were  we  born;  an* 
the  quest  is  ours,  Keevan  Sthrong-arm. " 

"I  have  said  it,"  answered  Keevan,  gruff 
like.  He  called  servin'  men,  an'  set  the  two 
brothers" down  to  great  platters  o'  roasted  meat; 
an'  Ardanna  brought  stone  flagons  o'  foamin' 
mead,  one  to  each  man.  So  they  ate  an'  drank 
like  stout  heroes,  till  hunger  an'  thirst  were 
past. 

Up  beyant  sat  Keevan,  his  chin  restin'  in  his 
hand,  an'  his  heavy  beard  coverin'  both  like 
driftin'  snow. 

"If  ye  are  as  like  in  strength  as  in  face  an' 
body,  'twill  be  a  long  day  before  Ardanna  is 
safe  wedded,"  says  he. 

"Ay,  but  Fergal,  me  brother,  has  more  power 
of  arm  than  I,"  says  Fionn. 

"An'  great  wisdom  has  Fionn,  beyant  aught 
o'  mine,"  laughed  Fergal. 

Then  Ardanna,  sittin'  in  shadow,  saw  wherein 
they  differed.  For  while  Fergal,  that  was  more 
hardy,  had  eyes  laughin'  an'  eager,  Fionn  sat 
ever  watchful  an'  cool,  waitin'  for  what  should 
come.  Yet  through  all  else  was  a  lovin'  between 
them  that  would  not  be  hidin'. 


WILD  APPLES  AN'  GOLDEN  GRAIN      85 

Now  the  night  came  on,  an'  in  the  great  hall 
was  singin'  an'  harpin';  an'  the  blaze  o'  logs 
on  the  wide  hearth  lighted  up  all  around.  By 
Ardanna  sat  her  old  nurse,  Mor,  that  knew 
many  things  hidden  from  wise  men.  An'  says 
Ardanna  to  her,  whisperin' — 

''Is  there  no  charm  to  aid  the  man  who  would 
gather  wild  apples  in  the  high  valley  o'  Einn?" 

Mor  bent  her  head,  an'  thought  long.  At  last 
she  plucked  three  long  hairs  from  the  flowin' 
locks  o'  Princess  Ardanna. 

"Bind  them  in  a  sheaf  with  these,  twisted 
thrice;  an'  safe  will  they  be  brought  home  to 
Keevan. ' ' 

Ardanna  glanced  round,  an'  passed  careless 
like  across  the  hall  to  where  sat  Fergal.  An' 
while  none  were  noticin',  she  gave  him  the  three 
hairs,  an'  told  him  the  charm,  scarce  breathin'. 

Fergal  opened  wide  eyes. 

"An'  where  is  the  man  can  bind  apples  in  a 
sheaf?"  says  he;  but  careful  that  none  should 
be  afther  hearin'. 

"That  I  know  not,"  says  Ardanna.  "  'Tis 
the  counsel  o'  Mor,  who  sees  clear  what  is  hid- 
den from  many  with  great  wisdom." 


86  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

Then  Fergal  nodded,  content  an'  smilin',  an' 
laid  the  three  hairs,  coiled  in  a  ring,  in  his 
huntin'  pouch.  He  kissed  the  little  soft  hand 
that  had  given  them;  an'  Ardanna  thought  to 
herself  how  a  sthrong  man  would  be  a  safe- 
guard between  her  and  all  ills. 

In  the  meantime  Keevan  Sthrong-arm  was 
talkin'  low  an'  earnest  with  Manis,  that  had 
told  him  the  raison  o'  many  forsakin'  him.  An' 
afther  much  colloguin'  he  beckoned  Fionn  to 
come  near.  An'  says  he,  lowerin'  his  voice — 

"  'Twill  take  more  wisdom  nor  strength  to 
be  masther  o '  the  will  o '  the  wilful.  Ill  is  golden 
grain  to  harvest  in  the  high  valley  o'  Einn. 
Take  ye  this  little  small  net  o'  silk,  an'  in  it 
ye  may  bring  home  what  would  slip  through 
finer  holes." 

Fionn  stared  at  him,  mazed  like ;  but  wisdom 
was  his  not  to  speak  when  words  served  no 
purpose,  an'  he  gathered  the  little  small  net 
in  his  hand,  an'  folded  it  beneath  his  belt.  An' 
afther  that  all  went  to  rest. 

When  morn  began  to  light  the  tops  o'  the 
eastern  hills,  Fionn  and  Fergal  stood  before  the 
gate  o'  the  tower,  with  Keevan  an'  Princess 


WILD  APPLES  AN'  GOLDEN  GRAIN      87 

Ardanna,  an'  all  who  served  their  will,  waitin* 
to  see  the  champions  ride  on  their  questin'. 

Wilful  still  was  the  face  o'  the  girleen  that 
was  cause  for  their  goin ' ;  but  when  at  last  both 
kissed  her  hand,  an'  rode  off  lightly  to  meet 
the  risin'  sun,  she  went  to  the  top  o'  the  tower, 
an'  knelt  there  on  the  cold,  rough  stones, 
watchin'  their  goin'  till  naught  could  be  seen 
more  for  the  turnin'  o'  the  road. 

A  long  ride  was  it  to  the  hills,  an'  hot  was 
the  sun  as  it  came  up  overhead.  When  the 
shadows  began  to  turn  before  them,  they  saw 
a  tall  cliff  fornenst  them,  an'  hills  risin'  ever 
above  it. 

"  There  lies  the  high  valley  o'  Einn,"  says 
Fionn,  musin'  to  himself. 

"An'  how  may  we  best  reach  it!"  asked  Fer- 
gal.  "  "Pis  far  an'  away  over  our  heads." 

"There  is  but  one  road,"  says  Fionn,  "an' 
that  the  cliffside.  Here  must  we  leave  our 
horses,  an'  climb  up  how  we  may,  for  the  hon- 
ourin'  of  Ardanna." 

So  both  dismounted,  an'  tied  the  weary  horses 
in  the  shade,  where  was  runnin'  wather  near  by. 

Fionn  thought  o'  the  little  small  net,  an'  said 


88  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

naught;  but  Fergal  put  his  hand  in  his  pouch, 
an'  touched  the  circle  o'  fine  hair.  "For  hon- 
ourin'  Ardanna!"  says  he,  an'  was  off  swift 
to  the  foot  o*  the  cliff.  Fionn  was  ready  at  his 
heels,  an'  up  they  sprang,  leapin'  across  hol- 
lows, an'  swingin'  themselves  up  by  holdin'  to 
the  points  o'  rock. 

Once  the  foot  o'  Fionn  slipped  on  a  loose  peb- 
ble, an'  naught  saved  his  fallin'  back  but  the 
swift  hand  an'  sthrong  o'  Fergal,  reached  out 
to  save.  An'  again  was  Fergal  nigh  to  throwin' 
his  full  weight  on  the  branch  of  an  ill-rooted 
bush,  but  was  warned  by  the  sharp  cry  o '  Fionn, 
his  brother. 

'Twas  a  weary  sthruggle  before  they  reached 
the  top  o'  the  cliff,  but  neither  could  bide  seein' 
his  brother  laggin'  behind  without  aidin'  him; 
an'  as  the  sun's  fire  dipped  into  the  western  sea, 
they  stood  with  clasped  hands  watchin'  it  sink. 

A  wild  counthry  it  was  above  there,  with 
tangled  vines  for  thrippin '  their  feet,  an'  thorny 
bushes  for  hindherin'  goin.' 

"Wiser  to  sleep  now,  an'  start  the  task  by 
full  day,"  counselled  Fionn,  an'  Fergal  nodded; 


WILD  APPLES  AN'  GOLDEN  GRAIN      89 

so  they  rested  on  the  coarse  grass,  sleepin' 
sound  as  in  the  tower  o'  Keevan  Sthrong-arm. 

At  the  first  glint  o'  dawn  they  were  on  their 
feet,  eager  an'  glowin'. 

"Each  choose  a  path/'  says  Fergal,  "an* 
meet  here  when  the  sun  is  fair  overhead." 

1  '  Well  thought, ' '  answered  Fionn.  ' « Will  ye 
go  north  or  south?" 

" Southward  is  the  way  o'  the  wind,"  says 
Fergal.  "I  face  it  to  the  north." 

"I  follow  it  toward  the  south,"  says  Fionn; 
an'  they  parted,  each  breakin'  way  for  himself 
through  the  bushes. 

Now  the  valley  o'  Einn  was  bound  about  with 
higher  walls  o'  rock  that  no  man  livin'  could 
pass  beyant,  an'  'twas  o'  no  great  length  nor 
breadth.  So  just  at  noon  the  two  brothers  came 
crashin'  through  the  undergrowth,  an'  met 
facin'. 

"Here  is  me  sheaf  o'  golden  grain,"  says 
Fergal,  pantin'  with  the  weight  o'  the  burden. 
An'  "Here  are  wild  apples  for  Keevan," 
laughed  Fionn,  droppin'  them  on  the  grass  from 
a  fold  o'  his  cloak. 

"Let  them  lie  here,"  says  Fergal.    "None 


90  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

will  lay  hand  on  them  while  ye  search  for  ripe 
grain,  where  I  found  a  plenty  growin'  to  the 
north;  an'  I'll  look  to  the  south  for  the  wild 
apples  growin'." 

"  'Tis  a  wise  word,"  says  Fionn;  so  not 
waitin'  for  eatin',  or  for  aught  but  a  sup  o'  cold 
wather  from  a  little  sthream  that  ran  down  the 
cliff-side,  they  parted  again,  an'  went  their 
ways.  An*  'tis  a  thrue  word  that  never  in  all 
the  valley  o'  Einn  could  Fergal  come  on  a  tree 
o'  wild  apples;  nor  for  all  his  searchin'  could 
Fionn  meet  with  a  stalk  o'  yellow  grain  to  put 
in  his  net.  Worn  an'  footsore  they  sat  at  last 
in  the  place  where  they'd  slept,  lookin'  each  at 
what  his  brother  had  brought. 

"A  queer  task  is  this,"  says  Fergal  at  last. 
"Aisy  what  was  of  it,  but  little  for  our  pains. 
An'  to  which  will  Keevan  Sthrong-arm  give  the 
princess  ? ' ' 

"Time  enough  for  that  when  we've  our  har- 
vestin'  safe  in  his  tower,"  says  Fionn. 

"Ay,  but  a  light  matther  is  the  goin'  back," 
laughed  Fergal. 

"Wait  an'  see,"  says  Fionn;  an'  stoopin' 
together,  each  took  up  his  burden  an'  started 


WILD  APPLES  AN'  GOLDEN  GRAIN      91 

to  climb  down  the  cliff,  for  no  other  path  was 
known. 

Ill  farm'  was  it;  an'  before  long  Fionn  gave 
a  sthrange  cry.  Fergal,  lookin'  across  to  him, 
saw  a  fearsome  sight.  The  apples,  happed  up 
in  his  cloak,  were  sendin'  up  tall  shoots  o'  green, 
an'  branches  growin'  ever  thicker;  an'  'twas 
vain  for  Fionn  to  grasp  them  to  him.  With  a 
spring,  Fergal  reached  his  side,  an'  catchin'  the 
three  hairs  from  his  pouch,  twisted  them  thrice 
an'  threw  them  in  the  branches.  An'  on  the 
instant  they  were  bound  together  in  a  sheaf,  an' 
the  weight  o'  them  was  gone  entirely,  so  that 
Fionn  had  no  more  throuble  in  gettin'  down 
the  rocks. 

But  now  'twas  Fergal 's  turn  to  need  helpin'. 
As  he  grasped  the  golden  grain  more  firm  like, 
all  sudden  his  feet  were  tangled  with  the  roots 
it  sent  down,  an'  he  stumbled  an'  nigh  went 
crashin'  down  to  his  death. 

Fionn,  lookin'  back,  saw  his  plight,  an*  for 
a  breath  he  waited,  rememberin'  Princess 
Ardanna.  Then  he  dashed  away  the  evil 
dhreamin',  an'  quick  as  light  he  drew  the  net 
from  his  belt,  flinging  it  round  the  sproutin* 


92  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

grain.  An'  the  roots  were  all  caught  in;  an* 
Fergal  reached  the  ground  below  with  ne'er  a 
slip  afther. 

Few  words  passed  between  them  as  they 
mounted  horse  an'  rode  westward;  but  as  they 
came  to  the  turn  in  the  road,  Fionn  drew  rein, 
an'  Fergal  likewise. 

"Ardanna  should  be  for  ye,"  says  Fionn, 
"for  ye  carry  her  the  great  sheaf  o'  golden 
grain,  an'  I  found  ne'er  a  stalk." 

"By  yer  aid  I  won  it,"  says  Fergal.  "An' 
ye  found  wild  apples  where  I  saw  none  afther." 

"An'  would  have  been  over  the  cliff  had  ye 
not  aided  in  time,"  says  Fionn. 

"  "Tis  fair  foolery  for  us  to  try  rivallin'," 
says  Fergal,  "yet  where 's  him  shall  settle  it!" 

"Wait,"  says  Fionn.  "  'Twas  Keevan  gave 
me  the  net  that  lies  across  yer  grain." 

"An'  'twas  Ardanna's  self  laid  three  hairs 
in  me  hand  for  bindin*  wild  apples,"  says 
Fergal. 

"Ay,  there  lies  the  puzzle  solved,"  cried 
Fionn.  "Moreover,  'twas  in  me  mind  to  leave 
ye  without  helpin'  on  the  cliff-side,  an'  foul 


WILD  APPLES  AN'  GOLDEN  GRAIN      93 

shame  would  it  have  been  to  me.  Wherefore 
is  this  word  a  just  one.  For  me  was  the  thought 
o '  Keevan ;  but  for  ye  is  the  heart  of  Ardanna. ' ' 
An'  together  they  rode  to  the  gate  o'  the  sea- 
ward tower,  an*  Fergal  carried  in  the  burdens 
an*  laid  them  at  the  feet  o'  Keevan ;  but  off  into 
the  sunny  world  rode  Fionn,  singin'  a  gay  song 
— to  seek  fairer  fortune  with  a  light  heart — 
for  knowin'  that  he  had  won  naught  by  faith- 
lessness. 


VII 

KING  DIAEMID  AN'  POL 

["Be  off  now,  for  I'll  not  lave  me  work  waitin' 
while  I'm  rubbin'  me  brain  to  think  of  old 
wives'  talk!  Betther  to  let  me  go  out, 
peaceable  like,  as  Pol  said  to  King  Diarmid, 
in  place  o'  holdin'  yer  nursery  door  to  kape 
me  in.  A — ah,  sure  an'  'tis  in  for  it  I  am, 
af ther  that  careless  word ;  so  sit  down,  with 
yer  red  apples  to  roast,  an'  hearken  while 
I  tell  ye  how  it  came  about."] 

'TWAS  mighty  fond  o'  money  was  King  Diar- 
mid. Not  for  spendin'  it  on  rich  clothing  or 
to  have  a  fine  place  for  livin'  in,  or  to  have  a 
grand  big  army  at  his  beckonin';  but  just  for 
sake  o'  savin'  it  an'  pilin'  it  up  in  his  sthrong 
room — that  was  the  only  shpot  in  all  his  castle 
not  leakin'  at  the  roof  an'  four  sides,  an'  lettin' 
in  rain  that  aisy. 

94 


KING  DIARMID  AN'  P6L  95 

Sure,  so  little  was  he  for  gettin'  the  good  o' 
that  pile  o'  gold,  that  he  went  abroad  in  a  faded 
old  doublet  that  was  scarce  holdin'  together, 
but  for  bein'  mended  every  day  by  Queen 
Dorcha ;  an'  the  storms  beat  in  free  on  the  floors 
o'  the  old  tumble-down  castle,  where  the  laste 
bit  o'  wind  shook  the  doors  an'  windows  nigh 
to  fallin'  in;  an'  his  servin'  men  an'  his  soldiers 
were  paid  so  ill  that  'twas  scant  good  he  got 
o'  them. 

Even  his  sons  went  off  to  far  lands  to  seek 
fortune,  havin'  small  likin'  for  stayin'  with  him 
an'  nigh  on  starvin'  (forbye  they  went  huntin', 
unbeknownst  like,  an'  roasted  their  game  over 
a  fire  o'  sticks  in  the  forest).  But  never  a  bit 
matthered  all  that  to  King  Diarmid,  while  his 
pile  o'  sacks  o'  money  was  fillin'  his  sthrong 
room  half  to  the  rafters,  an'  the  great  heavy 
iron  key  (the  one  bit  o'  shaped  iron  in  the  castle 
not  red  with  rustin')  hung  safe  at  his  belt,  ready- 
for  usin'  day  or  night. 

Now  fine  sthrong  young  men  were  his  sons, 
an*  good  at  leapin'  an'  wrestlin'  an'  fightin' 
too;  an'  as  long  as  they  were  bidin'  in  that 
part  o'  the  counthry,  none  dreamed  o'  meddlin' 


96  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

with  King  Diarmid;  but  when  the  neighbourin' 
kings  and  high  chieftains  learned  that  no  longer 
would  any  o'  them  stay  near  his  father,  an'  that 
Diarmid 's  fightin'  men  were  growin'  fewer  each 
day  that  dawned,  they  minded  the  tales  told  o ' 
the  raison  o'  that  same,  an'  began  to  think  how 
pleasin'  'twould  be  to  see  his  bags  o'  gold  hop- 
pin'  into  their  own  keepin' — that  would  know 
well  how  to  make  betther  use  o'  them. 

So  all  looked  round  to  search  out  good  ex- 
cuses for  invadin'  his  lands;  an'  before  long 
'twas  every  few  days  some  train  o'  men  in 
armour  came  riding  up  to  the  castle  o '  Diarmid, 
wantin'  him  to  pay  for  some  hurt  done  by  his 
people.  An'  while  Diarmid  knew  'twas  but 
shammin'  to  wring  gold  from  him,  yet  so  scant 
was  his  army,  an'  so  full  o'  discontent,  that  he 
dared  not  threaten  resistin',  for  fearin'  he'd 
need  to  pay  up  his  soldiers  before  they'd  be 
afther  fightin'  his  battles. 

He  tried  puttin'  off  their  claimin'  with  soft 
words  an'  excuses,  but  ever  an'  always  they 
came  again,  an'  with  more  men  at  their  backs, 
demandin'  gold.  An'  at  last  came  a  day  when 
payin'  had  to  be  done,  whatever  came  next,  for 


KING  DIARMID  AN'  POL  97 

men  o'  three  kingdoms  were  battherin'  at  his 
gates,  that  would  stand  but  little  o'  such  threat- 
ment.  Mournin'  he  was  as  he  sent  word  for 
openin'  the  doors  an'  lettin'  them  in;  an'  a 
long  face  was  his,  as  he  stood  peerin'  at  a  little 
hole  in  the  wall,  watchin'  them  ridin'  away 
afther,  each  by  his  own  road,  an'  carrying  the 
good  gold  before  them  on  their  saddle-bows. 

He  locked  up  the  low  iron  door,  an'  raged 
round  somethin'  fearful,  so  that  poor  Queen 
Dorcha  was  dreadin'  lest  her  life  might  go  next. 
When  he  had  made  an  end  o'  stravagin'  an' 
dancin'  furious  up  stairs  an'  down  the  halls,  he 
went  out  an'  sat  at  the  cross  roads  talkin'  to 
himself. 

"  'Tis  a  beggar  I'll  be  before  me  hour!" 
says  he.  "An'  me  ungrateful  sons  leavin'  me 
to  be  plundhered  unmerciful  like.  An'  when 
those  villains  o'  King  Mahon  an'  King  Duvan 
an'  his  brother  get  home  an'  tell  their  masthers 
that  I've  gold  laid  up,  'tis  no  peace  o'  me  life 
I'll  be  havin'.  An'  none  to  turn  to  for  tellin' 
me  what  to  do  to  get  the  betther  o'  them  an' 
their  plottin'  to  rob  me." 

Now  while  he  was  sittin'  lamentin'  he  heard 


98  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

a  quare  small  sound  behind  him,  in  the  long 
grass ;  an'  whippin'  round  quick  an'  unexpected, 
he  caught  sight  o'  somethin'  scarlet  slippin' 
past  him.  Sudden  as  a  flash  he  reached  for  it ; 
an'  though  he  lost  balance  an*  went  heels  over 
head  off  the  stone  where  he'd  been  perchin', 
yet  when  he  picked  himself  up  an'  shook  the 
dust  from  his  old  duds,  he  was  still  holdin*  on 
to  the  bit  o'  red,  that  was  a  wee  small  pointed 
cap. 

He  looked  at  it,  in  an'  outside,  as  if  he  was 
hopin'  to  find  gold  in  it;  an'  then  an  odd  bit 
of  a  voice  piped  up — 

"  'Tis  me  cap  o'  power  ye 're  squeezin'  in 
yer  big  awkward  hands.  Give  it  to  me,  or  may 
evil  follow  ye  all  the  way  ye  go — sittin'  or 
standin'  or  goin'  an'  payin'  gold." 

This  last  frighted  King  Diarmid,  an'  he 
looked  up  from  the  wee  thing,  an'  there  in  the 
dust  o '  the  road  stood  none  other  than  the  king 
o'  the  Little  People,  holdin'  out  his  hand,  an' 
hoppin'  from  one  foot  to  its  mate  for  eagerness 
to  have  his  own  again.  But  King  Diarmid  was 
crafty,  havin'  heard  much  o'  what  the  Little 
People  were  able  to  do. 


KING  DIARMID  AN'  POL  99 

" What '11  ye  give  me  for  returnin'  it!" 
asked  he. 

"Whatever  ye've  a  mind  to  ask  for  while 
I'm  afther  countin'  ten,"  says  the  little  man; 
an 'with  that  he  began— "One!  Two!  Three!" 
— an'  thrue  it  was  that  King  Diarmid  could 
think  o'  naught  but  what  had  been  in  his  mind 
the  moment  before. 

"Some  one  to  advise  me  how  to  get  the  bet- 
ther  o'  they  robbers,"  he  gasped,  fearin'  that 
he'd  not  get  the  words  out  fast  enough.  But 
the  little  king  laughed,  with  somethin'  wickeder 
nor  words  in  the  chuckle  o'  him. 

"That  I  will,"  says  he.  "An'  a  fine  coun- 
sellor ye '11  be  afther  findin'  him.  Sure,  Pol  is 
his  name;  an'  advice  is  the  very  marrow  o'  his 
bones  an'  the  blood  o'  his  body,  so  don't  be 
usin'  him  up  too  fast,  an'  be  left  wantin'  him." 

With  that  he  pulled  a  wee,  tiny  dotteen  of  a 
man  from  his  own  pouch,  an*  held  him  up  like 
a  doll  in  his  hand, 

1 '  Grow  bigger ! ' '  says  he  to  that  same.  '  *  Grow 
bigger!  Grow  up!  Grow  up!  I'm  tellin'  ye 
what's  for  yer  good.  Grow  up!  Grow  up!" 
An'  as  he  spoke  the  wee  thing  began  to  take  on 


100  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

size;  an*  before  King  Diarmid 's  eyes  it  sudden 
grew  to  be  as  high  as  the  king  o'  the  Little 
People,  an'  mighty  like  him  to  look  at. 

"  'Twas  advice  I  was  givin'  him,  ye  see," 
says  the  small  king,  settin'  him  down  in  the 
road,  an'  snatchin'  his  cap.  "  'Tis  that  he  lives 
on.  But  keep  him  on  scant  allowance,  cautious 
like,  or  he'll  masther  ye.  On  the  other  hand, 
see  that  ye  don't  ask  too  much  o'  him  at  one 
advisin',  an'  that  ye  follow  the  word  he  gives." 
An'  the  bit  king  was  gone  like  a  puff  o'  smoke. 

King  Diarmid  quick  caught  up  the  little  coun- 
sellor, an'  ran  home  with  him  to  the  castle,  an' 
set  him  in  a  corner  while  he  took  breath. 

"Ye  must  lodge  me  in  a  room  where  no  rain 
comes  in,"  says  Pol,  lookin'  round  an'  here  an' 
there  at  the  broken  windows  an'  the  sinkin' 
rafthers,  an'  at  the  holes  in  the  roof  where  the 
sun  was  pourin'  in. 

"But  there's  none,  only  me  sthrong  room," 
says  Diarmid,  fearful  for  his  store  o'  gold 
pieces. 

"Then  must  ye  put  me  there,"  says  the  little 
man.  An'  so  it  had  to  be. 

Now  before  long,  by  heedin1  the  advisin'  o' 


KING  DIARMID  AN'  P6L  101 

wee  Pol,  Bang  Diarmid  began  to  be  gettin'  even 
with  all  his  foes,  an'  his  riches  grew  without 
disturbing  for  he  learned  to  be  afther  settin' 
traps  that  showed  all  men  trespassin'  how  he 
was  no  more  to  be  put  upon. 

But  'twas  careful  King  Diarmid  had  to  be; 
for  each  time  that  he  asked  concernin'  some- 
thin',  he  saw  the  thing  shrink  a  bit,  an'  grow 
less,  an'  he  remembered  how  the  king  o'  the 
Little  People  had  warned  him.  He'd  no  idea 
how  to  help  matthers  without  riskin'  makin' 
him  grow  too  big;  yet  'twas  not  aisy  to  keep 
from  gettin'  his  relief  from  throubles,  an'  by 
reason  o'  that  he  noticed,  one  day,  that  his 
small  man  was  but  half  the  size  he'd  been. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  ye?"  he  asked,  puzzled 
dreadful. 

"Put  me  out  to  sit  in  the  middle  o9  the  road," 
says  Pol,  "an'  hearken  what  comes  next." 

So  Diarmid  carried  him  out  to  the  cross  roads, 
an'  set  him  down;  an'  there  he  started  up 
howlin',  so  that  all  comin'  by  stopped  to  look. 

"I've  hurt  me  toe!"  cried  Pol  the  counsellor. 

"Put  it  in  the  runnin'  wather,"  says  one. 

"Bub  it  well,"  says  another;  an'  the  one 


102  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

afther  had  his  own  way  o'  curia*  bruises  with  a 
bit  o'  cobweb,  an'  told  it  to  him.  An'  with  each 
piece  of  advisin'  given  him  the  creature  grew 
fatter  an'  taller,  as  it  had  been  somethin'  good 
for  eatin'.  An'  when  he  was  as  big  as  afore- 
time, King  Diarmid  lugged  him  home  again  to 
keep  company  with  his  bags  o'  riches,  that  had 
grown  till  they  nigh  filled  the  sthrong  room. 

"  'Twas  a  dish  of  advice  I  was  needin',"  says 
the  wee  thing.  "Ye'd  well  nigh  starved  me  for 
want  o'  that  same." 

"An'  what  kind  do  ye  like?"  says  Diarmid. 

"Any  that  comes,"  was  the  answer.  "  'Tis 
all  alike  it  tastes."  So  whenever  the  King 
thought  wee  Pol  was  shrinkin'  because  o'  givin' 
him  too  much  advice,  he  ricommended  him  to 
tie  his  shoe,  or  to  brush  his  coat,  or  somethin' 
o'  the  sort;  or  talked  serious  to  him  about  bein' 
generous;  an'  he  grew  right  away,  an'  throve 
mightily. 

Now  a  time  came  when  his  sons  turned  up 
at  the  castle  gate  for  to  be  afther  visitin'  their 
old  home.  An'  Diarmid  kept  the  door  o'  his 
money  room  fast  locked,  for  fear  o'  their  gettin' 
any,  or  perhaps  makin'  friends  with  Pol,  an' 


KING  DIARMID  AN'  POL  103 

gettin'  advice  about  askin'  their  father  for  a 
few  gold  pieces. 

"  'Tis  not  goin'  to  do  at  all,  keepin'  me  shut 
up  in  here,"  says  the  little  man.  "Betther  to 
let  me  out." 

"Not  I,"  says  Diarmid.  "I've  a  wiser  plan 
nor  that  in  me  mind." 

"Ay,  but  let  me  go  peaceable,"  says  P61. 

"Keep  ye  still,"  says  Diarmid;  an'  with  that 
word  for  his  supper,  the  wee  man  had  to  be 
content. 

But  him  that  was  used  to  runnin'  round  the 
castle  at  will,  took  ill  to  bein'  behind  bars;  an' 
all  Bang  Diarmid  could  get  from  him  was,  "Let 
me  out!  let  me  out!" 

Moreover,  the  sons  were  beginnin'  to  be  curi- 
ous about  the  sthrange  thing  that  squealed  in 
beyant;  an'  asked  more  questions  than  Diarmid 
found  comfortin'. 

There  came  a  night  when  thunder  rumbled 
an'  growled  at  a  great  rate;  an'  the  lightnin' 
was  amazin '  bright.  But  when.  King  Diarmid 
went  in  for  his  good-night  peep  at  the  little  man, 
all  he  could  spy  was  a  small  dark  thing  perched 
on  the  bags,  up  in  a  corner. 


104  THE  SONS  O7  CORMAC 

"I  advise  ye  solemnly  to  let  me  out  o'  here, 
or  ye '11  repent  it!"  says  the  small  voice  o'  him. 

"When  me  sons  is  gone,"  answered  Diarmid, 
not  even  offerin'  him  advice  on  bein'  silent,  but 
goin'  out  again  an'  fastenin'  the  door.  An* 
he  an*  his  family  sat  down  to  what  supper  there 
was. 

An'  now  began  a  terrible  racketin',  drownin' 
the  roarin'  o'  thunder,  an'  the  dhrippin'  o'  rain 
on  their  supper  table,  by  that  same  token. 
'Twas  "Let  me  out!"  in  a  big  voice  first;  then 
1 t  Let  me  out ! "  in  one  fainter,  till  with  it  all  ye  'd 
ha'  thought  each  stone  in  the  cracked  old  castle 
was  shoutin'  to  get  out  pf  its  lodgin'.  Hard 
work  had  Diarmid  to  hold  his  sons  from 
searchin'  to  see  what  was  wrong;  but  at  last 
the  squealin'  ceased,  an'  all  was  quiet. 

But  when — that  very  next  morn's  mornin* — 
Diarmid  went  to  speak  with  his  counsellor,  sure, 
not  a  shadow  o'  Pol  was  to  be  found  in  any 
chink;  for  he'd  done  naught  less  than  squealin' 
advice  to  King  Diarmid  to  let  him  go  free,  till 
he'd  squealed  himself — body  an'  clothes  an' 
small  red  nose — away  into  nothin'  at  all,  an' 
never  was  he  seen  more. 


KING  DIARMID  AN'  POL  105 

And  King  Diarmid  had  to  take  care  of  his 
money  all  alone? " 

"Ay,  sure;  an'  ye '11  know  now  what  they 
mean  when  ye  hear  them  sayin'  that  a  man 
shrinks  from  givin'  advice.  So  be  off  while 
there's  enough  o'  me  left  to  tend  to  me 
weedin'."] 


VIII 

FAIB  ATLTNN 

[''Hark,  now,  at  the  cowld  wind  blowing  the 
night!  'Tis  fine  an'  thankful  yees  should 
be  feelin'  to  be  in  warm  shelter,  an'  not 
wandherin'  abroad.  Sit  there  by  the  fire, 
an'  roast  yer  nuts  peaceable  like,  while  I'm 
afther  tellin'  yees  what  happened  once,  on 
a  night  as  like  this  as  the  two  eyes  in  yer 
faces."] 

AY,  'twas  a  night  worse  nor  this,  that  the  wind 
came  howlin'  an'  bringin'  the  snow  down  from 
the  mountains  an'  pilin'  it  at  the  gates  o' 
Breogan  the  Bed.  But  little  cared  he  for  what 
the  wind  might  be  doin'.  'Twas  chieftain  over 
the  men  o'  Lough  Derg  he  was,  an'  his  house 
was  sthrong  built  o'  hewn  oak;  an'  while  the 
roof  was  but  low,  the  buildin '  was  well  shielded 
round  with  walls  of  earth,  like  a  fort. 

106 


FAIR  AILINN  107 

In  by  a  fine  roarin'  fire  sat  Breogan  the  Bed 
— though  by  that  same  token  'twas  no  longer 
red,  but  white  with  years  his  hair  was  grown. 
An'  near  him,  at  the  feet  o'  one  spinnin',  sat 
Aongas,  his  son,  carvin'  a  cup  for  dhrinkin' 
from  a  bit  o'  wood,  while  the  men  an'  maids 
went  about  their  workin'.  Breogan  was 
dhreamin'  o'  fightin'  long  past,  an'  Aongas  bent 
over  his  carvin',  but  ever  an'  often  they  turned 
to  look  at  Fair  Ailinn,  as  she  stood  in  the  glow 
o'  the  flames,  dhrawin'  the  thread  o'  white  wool 
from  her  distaff. 

Afther  a  bit  she  began  to  sing,  an'  so  sweet 
was  that  same  that  only  one  o '  the  maids  heard 
a  low  knockin '  at  the  outer  gate.  She  stole  out, 
quiet  like,  to  find  who  was  there — an'  without 
stood  an  old  man,  carryin'  a  harp,  an'  seemin' 
nigh  perishin'  with  the  cowld.  She  signed  him 
to  pass  into  the  hall,  while  she  barred  the  gate 
behind  him;  so  alone  he  came  to  the  doorway 
an'  stood  watchin'  Fair  Ailinn  with  hungry 
eyes.  Never  one  looked  up  till  he  said — 

"Save  all  here." 

Then  all  eyes  turned  to  him,  an'  Ailinn,  put- 
tin'  down  distaff  an'  spindle,  came  forward  an* 


108  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

led  him  to  the  fire,  an'  took  his  tatthered  old 
cloak,  hangin'  it  to  dhry.  She  bid  a  servin' 
maid  bring  him  meat  an'  dhrink,  an'  not  till 
he  was  warmed  an'  fed  did  any  ask  whither 
he  came. 

"  'Tis  a  singer  without  a  name  I  am,"  says 
he  to  Breogan,  "an'  a  wandherer  over  the  land 
to  seek  the  one  whose  touch  on  me  harp  shall 
bring  me  me  heart's  desire." 

"An'  what  may  that  be?"  asked  Aongas, 
lookin'  up  with  fearless  eyes  like  a  young  eagle ; 
but  the  old  man  shook  his  head  an'  answered 
naught. 

"Have  ye  music  in  yer  harp  for  us  to  hear?" 
asked  Breogan. 

"Ay,"  says  the  man — and  sthruck  so  loud  an' 
clear  a  note  that  all  ears  were  listenin'  for 
what  might  follow.  Then,  of  a  sudden  like,  he 
broke  into  a  war  song,  with  the  clash  o '  swords 
in  every  line — singin'  so  sthrong  an'  fierce  that 
Aongas  sprang  to  his  feet  with  eyes  flashin' 
as  he  had  seen  battle  nigh. 

"Too  rare  a  singer  ye  are  to  be  wandherin' 
in  storm  an '  sleet, ' '  says  Breogan.  ' '  Stay  here 


FAIR  AILINN  109 

while  ye  will."  An'  Fair  Ailinn  brought  him 
a  great  horn  o'  mead. 

Then  he  swept  the  sthrings  again,  an'  'twas 
a  lament  for  warriors  fallen  in  battle,  an'  the 
keenin'  o'  women  was  never  so  sad  as  that  same. 
An'  Breogan  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand,  not 
carin'  to  let  any  see  how  he  was  feelin'. 

Now  afther  a  time  the  harper  rested  from 
playin',  an'  sat  on  the  bench  by  the  fire,  leanin' 
his  harp  on  his  knee.  An'  says  Aongas — 

"Why  for  have  ye  no  head  carved  on  the 
pillar  o'  yer  harpf  'Tis  naught  but  a  shapeless 
block." 

"For  that  I  have  not  found  me  heart's  de- 
sire," says  he.  "But  old  I'm  growin',  an'  no 
longer  shall  it  be  without  form.  Give  me  leave 
to  carve  on  it  the  head  o'  yer  fair  daughter, 
Breogan,  son  o'  Cennedigh." 

"Leave  have  ye,  though  no  child  o'  mine  is 
she  save  in  lovin'.  The  light  o'  me  house  has 
she  been  since  the  day  when  I  found  her  lyin* 
sleepin',  a  lost  birdeen,  on  the  shores  o'  Lough 
Derg."  An'  Breogan  laid  his  hand  on  her  hair 
— like  floss  o'  black  silk  it  was — as  she  knelt 
by  him.  AJI'  she  looked  up,  with  love  in  her 


110  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

smilin '.  Then  the  old  harper  caught  the  gravin* 
knife  from  the  hand  of  Aongas. 

"Bide  as  ye  are,  Fair  Ailinn,  till  I've  the 
image  o'  yer  face  carven  (hit,"  he  cried;  an* 
all  in  the  hall  pressed  nigher  to  see  what  he 
would  do. 

An'  while  Aongas  was  betther  nor  many  at 
the  shapin'  o'  wood  an'  horn  an*  bone,  yet  he 
could  do  naught  to  compare  with  this.  As  they 
stood  gazin',  the  very  face  o'  Fair  Ailinn  seemed 
to  grow  from  out  the  block  o'  wood,  even  to  the 
soft  curl  on  her  fair  forehead,  an  the  shinin' 
jewel  in  her  ear. 

Aongas  looked  long,  an'  turned  away  sore 
against  his  will;  but  the  hour  had  come  when 
'twas  his  care  to  watch  at  the  gate  till  morn, 
an'  he  went  out  to  his  post. 

"Bare  skill  ye  have,  harper  without  a  name," 
says  Breogan,  "an'  if  gold  can  buy  the  work 
o '  yer  hands,  'tis  for  ye  to  name  yer  price. ' ' 

"Wait,"  answered  the  harper.  "Wait  an' 
hearken." 

Then  as  they  strained  their  ears  for  listenin', 
came  tremblin'  on  the  air  a  sound  soft  as  the 
singin'  o'  Fair  Ailinn,  or  the  rustle  o'  wind 


FAIR  AILINN  111 

in  the  deep  o'  the  ferns.  An'  the  men  an*  maids 
ceased  their  comin'  an'  goin',  an'  sank  speech- 
less on  the  benches  round  the  hall ;  an  Breogan 
nodded  drowsy  like — an'  the  head  o'  Fair  Ailinn 
drooped  lower,  restin'  on  his  knee — an'  all 
under  the  roof,  f orebye  the  harper  himself,  were 
too  heavy  in  sleep  for  dhreamin'. 

One  last  note  he  touched,  an*  up  rose  Fair 
Ailinn,  her  sweet  eyes  fast  closed,  an'  came 
toward  him  like  a  white  mist  blown  across  run- 
nin'  wather.  The  face  o'  the  harper  was  full 
o'  wild  triumphin'. 

"Gold  first,"  he  cried.  "Give  it  in  me 
hands!" 

He  pushed  the  harp  so  that  her  soft  fingers 
rested  on  the  sthrings,  an'  as  a  note  wavered, 
there  were  his  withered  old  hands  heaped  with 
shinin'  money. 

"  'Tis  me  heart's  desire!"  he  shouted, 
knowin'  that  none  could  wake  to  hear.  He 
lifted  the  harp,  an*  stepped  backward  toward 
the  door,  playin'  a  song  so  wild  an'  so  sthrange 
that  Fair  Ailinn  followed,  ever  nigher  to  that 
harp  whose  head  was  like  the  shadow  o'  her 
own  in  the  dyin'  firelight,  till  in  a  breath  she 


112  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

vanished,  an*  naught  remained  but  the  image. 
Quick  the  old  man  threw  his  ragged  cloak  round 
him,  took  the  harp  on  his  shouldher,  an'  went 
out  to  the  gate,  where  stood  Aongas,  watchin' 
in  the  night  an'  dark. 

"  'Tis  not  goin'  out  ye  are!"  says  the  lad. 

"Ay,"  says  the  harper.  At  sight  o'  his  face 
Aongas  fell  back,  for  the  gate  was  swingin* 
open  before  him  without  help  o'  hand,  an'  be- 
fore he  knew  it  the  old  man  was  out  an'  away. 
At  that  same  moment  the  snow  ceased  fallin', 
an'  when  the  moon  shone  from  behind  a  cloud, 
no  man  was  to  be  seen. 

Aongas  thought  sthrange  of  it,  an'  afther 
watchin'  an'  wondherin',  he  felt  it  right  to  go 
in  an'  speak  o'  the  matter  to  Breogan.  An' 
there,  heavy  in  sleep,  lay  Breogan,  an'  round 
him  the  men  an'  maids,  an*  no  touch  o'  his 
could  rouse  any  there.  He  went  to  the  room 
o'  Fair  Ailinn,  but  the  door  stood  open,  an' 
none  within.  He  ran  through  house  an '  hall,  an ' 
without  in  the  courtyard,  but  ne'er  a  footprint 
was  in  the  snow,  barrin'  his  own  an*  the  old 
harper's.  Nowhere  was  sign  o'  Fair  Ailinn, 
an'  he  knew  that  she  had  been  stolen  away. 


FAIR  AILINN  113 

Only  half  knowin'  what  he  was  doin',  he 
caught  up  sword  an'  cloak,  an'  rushed  out  to 
follow  the  ferack  o'  the  harper  in  the  snow. 
Through  the  night  he  pushed  on  swiftly,  past 
the  little  Lough,  an*  over  the  hills,  goin'  ever 
westward  toward  the  old  sea.  Never  a  sight 
had  he  o'  livin'  mortal,  though  the  bright  o' 
the  moon  showed  him  the  print  o'  feet  that 
seemed  never  to  weary.  But  the  very  wind 
blowin'  on  his  back  seemed  helpin'  Aongas  for- 
ward, an'  when  morn  came,  he  was  near  a  half- 
ruined,  dark,  old  castle,  on  a  crag  overlookin' 
Mai  Bay,  where  the  winter  waves  were  beatin' 
up  on  the  shore.  The  marks  led  to  a  closed 
gate,  but  he  waited  for  a  breath  before  beatin' 
at  it.  An'  in  that  moment  he  spied  a  bit  of 
a  fisher's  hut,  far  down  the  shore,  an'  he  thought 
it  wise  to  ask  there  for  word  o'  Fair  Ailinn  an* 
the  old  harper. 

A  frightened  bit  of  a  lass  stood  in  the  door, 
an'  shook  her  head  at  his  questionin'. 

"  'Tis  never  more  ye '11  see  her  if  she's  been 
stolen  away  by  Oisin,  son  o'  Lua,"  whispered 
she.  "  'Tis  a  terrible  sorcerer  he  is,  an'  five 
hundred  year  has  he  lived  in  that  castle,  with 


114  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

ne'er  a  stone  fallen  or  a  hinge  rusted  beyant 
what  it  was  when  he  first  went  in  at  the  door. 
That  which  he  has  desired  has  he  played  on 
his  harp,  an'  there  before  him  would  be  the 
thing  he  willed  to  have.  But  in  these  days 
much  o '  that  power  has  gone  from  him,  for  his 
wicked  doin's.  Sleep,  an'  rule  over  wind  an' 
wather  are  his;  but  the  gold  that  he  loves,  an' 
the  renewin'  o'  his  wicked  life,  must  be  played 
for  him  by  a  fair  maid  with  true  love  in  her 
heart.  For  that  will  he  have  stolen  Fair  Ailinn, 
an'  hidden  her  where  none  can  free  her  save 
that  man  who  has  no  fearin'  in  his  heart;  an' 
where's  he  who  fears  not  Oisin?" 

Aongas  laughed,  with  eyes  sparklin'  like  the 
risin'  sun  on  the  sea.  "No  fear  o'  livin'  man 
have  I,"  says  he.  "Give  me  a  fisher's  coat  in 
place  o'  me  cloak,  an'  ashes  to  darken  me  face, 
an'  we  shall  see  what  will  come  o'  the  power 
o'  Oisin." 

So  the  fisher  lass  helped  him  to  change  his 
looks,  an'  Breogan  his  father  would  not  have 
known  him  for  the  fine  young  warrior  he'd  seen 
leavin'  the  hall  to  guard  the  gate.  An'  up  to 
the  castle  of  Oisin  he  went  an'  knocked  boldly. 


FAIR  AILINN  115 

Afther  some  waitin'  the  harper  opened,  an* 
already  he  seemed  younger  nor  before. 

"What's  yer  will?"  asked  he. 

"Me  boat  is  wrecked  on  the  rocks,"  says 
Aongas,  "an'  no  way  o'  gamin'  me  livin'  have 
I.  Give  me  work,  an'  naught  but  food  will  I 
ask  in  return." 

Now  Oisin  was  weary  o '  the  work  o '  carryin ' 
away  an'  storin'  the  gold  that  Fair  Ailinn  had 
played  for  him,  an'  little  thinkin'  he  beckoned 
the  lad  to  enter,  knowin'  that  all  fishers  along 
that  coast  knew  well  an*  feared  the  breath  o' 
his  name — knowin'  his  power  over  wind  an' 
wather,  by  reason  o'  his  magic  harpin'. 

"Carry  these  bags  to  the  tower  beyant,"  says 
he,  "while  I  sleep.  An'  afther  I'll  give  ye  yer 
food." 

Within,  Aongas  saw  a  long,  dark  hall,  with' 
naught  o'  furnishin'  save  a  wooden  settle,  an'  a 
dusty,  broken  harp  by  it. 

"Never  lay  hand  on  that,"  says  Oisin,  fol- 
lowin'  his  look.  "If  ye  do,  'twill  vanish,  an' 
yer  life  will  be  mine  in  payment. ' ' 

Aongas  nodded,  pretendin'  to  be  frighted  at 
the  thought;  but  his  heart  leaped,  for  on  the 


116  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

pillar  o*  the  harp  he  saw  the  likeness  o'  Fair 
AiliTm.  So  Oisin  showed  him  where  to  carry 
the  bags  o'  money,  an*  watched  him  a  bit  as 
he  toiled  up  the  tower  stair  to  the  sthrong  room 
— then  went  back  to  the  hall  an'  lay  down  on 
the  bench,  shammin'  sleepin'.  But  he  had  a 
quare  thought  that  within  the  fisherman's  eyes 
was  no  real  fear  o'  him,  an*  danger  to  his 
heart's  desire  lay  in  that  same,  so  he  waited 
for  Aongas  to  come  down  to  try  him. 

An'  as  the  lad  bent  for  a  heavy  sack,  there 
was  a  terrible  barkin',  an'  he  saw  the  whole 
hall  filled  with  fierce  dogs,  comin'  at  him  to 
tear  him.  Aongas  looked  at  them,  careless  like, 
though  two  had  teeth  in  his  coat,  an'  shook  Oisin 
by  the  shouldher  o9  him. 

"Call  off  yer  beasts,"  says  he.  "  'Tis  loath 
I  am  to  harm  them."  An'  there  was  a  ring 
in  his  voice  not  like  that  of  a  fisher  lad.  Oisin 
mutthered  a  word,  an*  the  hall  was  clear;  but 
still  he  seemed  sleepin'. 

When  Aongas  came  down  the  stair  again, 
he  made  but  a  step  on  the  floor,  an'  sudden  like 
it  was  slidin'  away  from  under  his  feet,  an'  all 
the  walls  waverin*  as  if  to  fall  an'  crush  him. 


FAIR  AILINN  117 

Quick  as  a  flash  he  gave  a  spring  an'  landed 
on  top  o'  Oisin;  an*  at  that  all  was  as  before. 
An*  the  ashes  fell  from  his  face,  an'  Oisin 
knew  him;  but  no  word  he  spoke,  thinkin'  that 
Aongas  might  as  well  finish  the  carryin'  o'  the 
treasure  before  bein'  killed  for  folio  win'. 

The  third  time  came  Aongas,  when  'twas 
growin'  toward  night,  an'  all  the  sacks  o'  gold 
were  stored,  an'  his  service  ended.  An'  as  he 
bent  to  speak,  great  flames  burst  in  through  all 
the  windows  an'  doors,  an'  no  way  o'  gettin' 
out.  Aongas  saw  Oisin  disappear  from  the 
bench  where  he'd  been  lyin',  like  a  shadow 
afther  sunset,  an'  he  knew  that  this  last  hap- 
penin'  was  no  jestin',  for  the  heat  grew  ever 
fiercer;  but  still  was  no  fearin'  in  his  heart. 
Lastly  his  eye  fell  on  the  harp.  A  faint 
tremblin'  sound  came  from  it,  an'  the  thought 
o'  seein'  the  face  o'  Fair  Ailinn,  though  'twas 
but  carved  in  wood,  made  black  an'  charred  by 
fire,  was  more  nor  he  could  dhream  o'  lettin* 
come  to  pass. 

"Betther  to  see  the  harp  vanish,  than  that," 
says  he,  reckless.  "Oisin  can  do  no  more  nor 
take  me  life  from  me,  be  it  by  fire  or  sorcery." 


118  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

He  caught  the  harp  on  his  arm,  an'  sthmck 
ringin'  music  from  it.  An'  as  it  echoed  up  into 
the  smoky  rafters,  of  a  sudden  the  fire  was 
gone,  an'  in  the  dark  stood  Aongas,  with  Fair 
Ailinn  clasped  close  to  him,  an'  the  wind  blowin' 
cold  from  the  sea.  The  moon  shone  in  at  a 
high  window,  an'  on  the  floor  lay  the  cloak  o' 
Oisin.  Aongas  lifted  it  to  wrap  about  Fair 
Ailinn,  an'  there,  beneath,  was  all  that  ever  men 
saw  more  o'  Oisin  son  o'  Lua.  An'  a  little 
heap  o'  dust  was  that  same.  Sure,  five  hundred 
years  had  he  'worked  ill  for  his  own  pleasure ; 
an'  when  his  enchantin'  went  against  him,  the 
years  came  back. 

"A  good  endin',  that,  for  all  who  work  evil," 
says  Aongas.  Catchin'  up  Fair  Ailinn,  he 
sprang  down  to  the  gate,  which  stood  swingin' 
in  the  moon  shadows  as  the  wind  blew,  for  the 
bars  were  naught  but  heaps  o'  rust  in  their 
sockets. 

"  'Tis  for  home  we're  bound,"  laughed  he, 
with  a  light  heart. 

Now  thrue  it  is  that  when  they  reached  the 
house  o'  Breogan  the  Bed,  all  lay  as  Aongas 
had  left  them,  sleepin'  this  way  an'  that;  an' 


FAIR  AILINN  119 

none  roused  till  Fair  Ailinn  laughed  an*  sang 
with  gladness  at  bein'  there  once  more. 

Breogan  sat  up  an'  rubbed  his  eyes. 

11  "Tis  dhreamin'  o'  dhreamin'  I've  been," 
says  he,  "but  I've  woke  in  time  for  a  weddin'." 

An'  to  the  last  day  of  all  there,  none  knew 
that  they  had  lost  a  day  an'  a  night  from  their 
lives. 

["  And  was  the  old  man  never  heard  of  again?" 
"  Never  no  more,  for  he  blew  away  en- 
tirely.    If  ye  doubt  me  word,  go  to  Mai 
Bay,  an'  see  what  a  power  o'  dust  lies  on 
the  shore  to  this  day."] 


IX 


THE  SEBVIN'  o'  CULAIE; 

["  Nay,  nay,  then.  An  end  to  yer  chatter.  Never 
a  man  learned  his  lessons  by  sittin'  down 
an'  paintin'  a  picture  o'  the  teacher;  an' 
'tis  never  a  bridge  yees  will  be  afther 
crossin'  by  dhreamin'  o'  what's  on  the 
other  side.  'Tis  hard  work  that  counts,  in 
the  end.  Hear  now!"] 

'TWAS  Culain  was  youngest  son  to  King  Ciad; 
an*  fonder  he  was  o'  lyin'  on  the  cliffs  an' 
hearkenin'  to  the  beatin'  o'  the  waves,  or  o' 
the  harpin'  an'  singin'  in  the  hall,  than  o'  bat- 
tlin'  an'  strife.  Yet  all  was  not  from  wantin' 
strength  an'  skill,  but  for  lackin'  raison  for 
tryin'  them. 

Fine  sthrong  men  were  his  two  brothers,  an' 
good  at  the  sword-play,  an'  had  scant  patience 
totith  Culain  for  his  aisy-goin'  ways.  Yet  was 

120 


THE  SERVIN'  O'  CULAIN  121 

there  thrue  lovin'  between  them,  an*  many  a 
time  they  shielded  him  from  the  wrath  o'  King 
Ciad.  However,  at  last  an'  at  length  he  got 
an  inklin'  o'  what  like  his  youngest  son  was 
gettin'  to  be,  an'  one  mornin'  he  called  the  three 
to  him. 

"  'Tis  thinkin'  o'  sharin'  me  kingdom  be- 
tween the  three  o'  yees  I  am,"  says  he,  "bem' 
as  I'm  growin'  old.  But  first  I'd  be  afther 
knowin'  what  each  o'  yees  has  done  to  show 
himself  a  man  worthy  o'  rulin'  men." 

Well  now,  they  looked  at  each  other,  not  bein' 
boastful  warriors,  but  either  waitin'  for  his 
brother  to  speak  before  him. 

"What  now?"  says  old  King  Ciad,  lookin'  up 
expectin'  under  his  white  brows. 

Then  spoke  up  Firbis,  that  was  eldest: 
"When  me  brother  Ingri  was  attacked  by  the 
men  o'  Torcal  the  Dane,  he  fought  his  way  out, 
five  to  one,  an'  reached  home  by  wadin'  the 
rapids  in  season  to  warn  us.  An'  bitther  cold 
was  the  wather  on  his  wounds." 

Then  Culain  says,  eager  like :  "When  the  wild 
boar  came  nigh  to  Hllin'  me,  'twas  Firbis  thrust 
the  spear  into  his  throat,  never  fearin'  for  him- 


122  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

self.  An'  he  outwitted  the  men  o'  the  North 
Isles,  capturin'  their  long  ships  when  they  were 
ashore,  an*  hindherin'  them  from  burnin'  the 
dun." 

"An*  what  has  Culain  done  to  be  deservin' 
his  share  ?"  asked  King  Ciad.  "Has  none  a 
good  word  for  him,  nor  tale  of  a  brave  deed?" 

"Sthrong  of  arm  is  he,"  says  Firbis,  slow 
o'  speech,  "an*  can  sing  songs  o'  battle  an'  tell 
rare  tales  o'  heroes. " 

"What  use  the  sthrong  arm  when  'tis  put  to 
no  good  purpose?"  says  the  King.  "Is  that 
the  best  ye  have  to  tell!" 

"Nay,"  says  Ingri.  "But  yester-morn  he 
drew  Donncha,  the  groom,  from  a  deep  pit 
where  he  had  lain,  bruised,  through  the  night, 
an'  brought  him  in  on  his  shouldher;  an'  many 
a  load  o'  fagots  has  he  carried  through  the 
forest  to  the  hut  o'  Bethoc,  that  was  his  nurse." 

But  Culain  stood  silent. 

"A  servin'  man  could  well  have  done  as 
much,"  says  Ciad.  "No  part  o'  this  kingdom 
o'  mine  is  for  one  who  has  done  naught  to  win 
it.  What  king  would  marry  his  daughter  to  a 
sluggard?" 


THE  SERVIN'  0'  CULAIN  123 

Then  the  hot  blood  leapt  to  the  face  o '  Chilain. 

"Sluggard  shall  ye  name  me  no  longer  1"  he 
cried.  "A  princess  will  I  win  for  me  own,  an' 
bring  her  to  share  me  birthright ;  or  if  ye  will, 
give  the  kingdom  to  Firbis  an'  Ingri,  an'  a 
kingdom  o'  me  own  will  I  conquer,  or  die 
tryin'." 

"Well  spoken,''  answered  the  old  king,  hidin' 
the  gladness  that  warmed  his  heart  at  the  words 
o' the  lad.  "But  as  I  say,  so  shall  it  be.  Take 
a  sword,  an'  what  horse  ye  choose;  an'  a  purse 
with  ten  gold  pieces  will  I  give  to  ye ;  and  then 
be  off  into  the  world  to  seek  yer  fortune  an' 
learn  what  it  means  to  be  o'  the  blood  o'  kings. 
A  year  an'  a  day,  an'  two  days  more  I  give  ye, 
to  prove  that  ye've  the  heart  of  a  brave  man, 
an'  to  win  yer  right  to  a  third  o'  me  lands." 

So  Culain  took  his  sthrong  sword,  an'  the 
purse  from  his  father's  hand,  an'  went  down  to 
get  a  horse  to  ride.  An'  there  in  the  stable 
stood  Bethoc,  the  crone  that  had  been  nurse  to 
his  mother  before  him. 

"  'Tis  out  in  the  world  ye 're  goin',"  says  she, 
leanin'  on  her  staff. 

"Ay,"  says  Culain,  stout  like. 


124  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

"Then  give  me  a  promise  before  ye  mount. 
For  though  they  may  call  ye  sluggard,  yet  have 
ye  learned  o'  me  one  thing  that  is  above  buyin' 
in  battle — that  the  word  of  a  king's  son  can  be 
neither  bent  nor  broken." 

"Have  yer  promise,  then,  for  that  wise  les- 
son," says  Culain,  waitin'  patient  for  what  she 
should  ask. 

"Then  'tis  that  ye  heed  an*  remember  an* 
obey  the  words  I'm  afther  speakin'  to  ye  now. 
Hearken,  Culain,  son  o'  King  Ciad.  'Tis 
through  servin'  ye '11  gain  skill  an'  power  that 
could  come  to  ye  in  no  other  way;  an'  through 
that  same  ye '11  at  last  reach  the  road  for  winnin' 
the  good  that's  comin'  to  ye  if  yer  heart  fails 
not.  Hold  fast  to  yer  word  once  given,  an' 
set  yer  hand  to  naught  without  carryin'  it 
through.  Mindin'  that,  all  will  go  well  in  the 
end,  though  it  seem  blacker  nor  storm  in  winter. 
Me  word  is  said." 

Then  Culain  dhropped  the  silken  purse  in  her 
withered  hand. 

"Ye '11  be  needin'  it  more  nor  meself,"  says 
he;  an'  from  a  stall  he  took  the  best  horse  that 
offered.  Then,  with  a  wave  o'  the  hand  to  the 


THE  SERVIN'  0'  CULAIN  125 

ones  watchin'  at  the  gate,  he  rode  away  into 
the  deep  forest,  with  the  words  o'  Bethoc  run- 
nin'  ever  an'  all  the  time  in  his  mind. 

For  many  an  hour  he  held  on  his  way,  never 
seein'  livin'  thing  (forbye  'twas  the  birds 
singin'  in  the  branches,  or  a  roe  deer  leapin'  up 
the  mountain  side),  till  he  came  to  a  deep  valley, 
far  from  the  sea.  An'  fhere  he  came  on  a  low 
hut,  built  o'  boughs;  an'  before  it  two  men  sit- 
tin',  fishin*  in  a  little  small  sthream  that  ran 
by,  convenient  like.  Torn  an'  tatthered  lookin' 
they  were,  but  not  seemin'  to  mind  aught,  or  be 
shamed  by  their  quare  looks. 

"Save  all  here,"  says  Culain,  dismountin' 
and  stoopin'  to  dhrink  the  runnin'  wather. 

"  'Tis  welcome  ye  are,"  says  the  first  ragged 
man,  pullin'  up  a  little  fish.  When  the  second 
fellow  saw  it  wrigglin'  on  the  hook,  he  dhropped 
his  own  line,  an'  they  fell  to  throwin'  dice  to 
see  which  should  have  it.  An'  Culain  had  never 
seen  that  done  at  all. 

"Who  are  ye?"  he  asked,  wondherin'. 

"Jolly  beggar-men,"  says  the  first.  "Taig 
am  I;  an'  this,  me  fellow,  is  Derg  o'  the  Mill, 
bein'  dhriven  out  o'  one  for  not  workinV 


126  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

"An'  what  sort  o'  playin'  is  that  ye 're 
afther?"  asked  Culain,  ever  one  to  be  aisy  led 
from  his  purpose,  an'  forgettin'  what  errand  he 
rode  on. 

"Thry  it  an'  see,  if  ye've  aught  worth 
stakin',"  laughed  Derg  o'  the  Mill.  "  'Tis  rare 
sport  ye '11  find  it,  an'  well  suitin'  a  fine  lad  like 
yerself." 

Culain,  willin'  to  learn,  sat  down  on  the  green 
bank,  an'  began  throwin'  dice  with  the  two 
beggar-men,  stakin'  what  he  had  against  the 
small  triflin'  things  they  played  for,  till  luck 
left  him  entirely.  Sure,  first  thing  he  knew,  the 
horse  was  Taig's,  an'  Derg  o'  the  Mill  was 
flourishin'  the  fine  sword  he'd  won. 

"We'll  be  afther  sellin'  them  quick,  to  the 
first  that  comes  passin'  by,"  says  Derg. 

"Wait,"  says  Culain.  "Is  there  no  way  for 
me  to  get  them  again?  HI  honour  is  it  to  me 
for  losin'  them." 

"Have  ye  naught  else  to  stake?"  asked  Taig. 

"Nay,"  says  Culain,  "an'  no  more  would  I 
risk  if  I  had.  An  evil  day  is  this  wherein  I'm 
afther  meetin'  yees." 

"Ay,  but  wait,"  says  Taig.    "Three  beggar- 


THE  SERVIN'  0'  CULAIN  127 

men  are  we  now,  an'  may  do  great  things  as 
any  king's  son,  if  we  fare  out  into  the  world 
together.  Will  ye  buy  back  yer  horse  with  six 
months  o'  servin'  us?" 

"That  will  I,"  answered  Culain,  "an'  me 
sword  with  other  six." 

"Done,"  says  Derg.  "An'  I'll  cast  in  the 
bargain  the  teachin'  o'  ye  how  to  wile  singin' 
birds,  an'  what  else  I  know;  an'  Taig  '11  give 
ye  the  word  that  makes  flowers  bloom  where 
'tis  spoken.  An'  in  the  end  ye  may  amount  to 
somethin'  worthy  o'  makin'  a  third  in  our  com- 
pany, an'  thravelin'  with  us  where  we  go." 

So  poor  Culain,  shamed  to  tell  them  how  he 
was  a  king's  son  seekin'  fortune  an'  a  princess, 
served  the  two  beggar-men,  dhrawin'  wather 
an'  buildin'  the  fire  an'  roastin'  meat.  Many 
a  time  he'd  have  given  much  to  slip  away  by 
night  an'  off  to  freedom,  but  bound  by  his  given 
word  he  was,  both  to  the  beggar-men  that  had 
won  his  horse  an'  sword,  an'  to  Bethoc.  So  he 
bent  to  his  labourin'  with  a  will,  every  day 
growin'  sthrong  an'  more  active;  an'  many  a 
thrick  o'  cunnin'  sword-play  he  learned  o'  Derg, 
that  had  been  a  fightin'  man  till  he  grew  too 


128  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

lazy.  An'  Taig,  that  had  given  up  bein'  a  black- 
smith to  take  to  beggin',  showed  him  many  a 
sthrange  way  o'  managin'  horses. 

An*  as  the  days  went  on,  Culain  asked  many 
a  time  if  they  were  never  goin'  out  in  the  world 
to  win  honour,  an*  always  they  promised  that 
'twould  be  on  the  next  day  comin'  they'd  be 
off ;  but  the  day  never  came  at  all,  for  there  was 
always  more  throwin'  o'  dice,  or  some  one 
stoppin'  beside  the  road  for  gossipin',  or  some 
rare  good  cause  for  puttin'  off  actin'  like  men. 
An'  Culain  was  fair  disthracted  from  bein'  so 
restless — havin'  to  stay  servin'  beggar-men 
when  great  deeds  were  doin'  out  beyant.  Yet 
ever  the  counsel  o'  Bethoc  came  in  his  mind, 
an*  for  the  pride  o'  him  he'd  not  take  back  the 
word  once  given. 

"Why  not  be  takin'  things  aisy,  like  us?" 
Taig  would  say.  "  'Tis  as  good  as  bein'  kings, 
an'  not  half  the  throuble,  sittin'  here  an'  lettin' 
life  go  on,  without  frettin'  our  minds  about 
what  matthers."  But  Culain  was  fast  learnin' 
different;  though  ne'er  a  word  came  from  him 
as  to  his  bein'  a  prince. 

Now  'twas  nigh  on  the  end  o'  the  twelfth 


THE  SERVIN'  0'  CULAIN  129 

month  o*  his  servin',  when  one  passed  bearin' 
news. 

"  'Tis  from  the  court  o'  King  Murtagh  I 
come,"  says  he,  "where  lives  a  fair  maid, 
daughter  o*  the  king's  brother,  Donal,  that  was 
slain  in  the  great  battle  o'  the  White  Ford. 
Morna,  Love  o'  Sunshine,  they  call  her.  An* 
much  talkin'  o'  gold  an'  silver,  an'  buyin'  an' 
bargainin'  has  she  heard  in  the  court  o'  Mur- 
tagh (who  would  make  a  betther  merchant  nor 
leader  in  battle,  by  that  same  token),  till  from 
dislikin'  to  that  has  she  sworn  to  wed  none 
save  him  who  shall  bring  her  the  gift  which 
no  gold  nor  silver  can  buy.  An'  King  Murtagh 
holds  her  to  that,  sayin'  that  that  man  shall 
she  sure  wed,  be  he  plain  servin'  lad  or  one  o' 
high  degree.  An'  her  a  right  king's  daughter! 
Ay,  but  'tis  some  thrickery  lies  under  all,  to 
me  mind.  'Twill  be  aisy  sayin'  'Take  her,'  but 
I'm  thinkin'  that  man  '11  be  needin'  to  ride  with 
drawn  sword,  or  never  will  he  win  free  from 
the  gates." 

"Oho!"  says  Taig,  seein'  the  man  ridin'  on 
his  way  afther  speakin',  "  'tis  to  the  court  o' 
King  Murtagh  we'll  be  goin'.  Maybe  we'll  get 


130  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

a  princess  for  wife  to  one  of  us,  an'  never  need 
to  work  more.  An*  for  his  talk  o'  thrickery, 
'twas  but  to  put  us  off  the  thrack."  An'  Derg 
agreed — grinnin'  with  his  ugly  face. 

So  they  had  Culain  pack  up  what  goods  there 
were,  an'  tie  them  in  a  bundle  to  carry  on  his 
shouldher;  an'  he  followed  on  foot  where  they 
two  rode  on  the  horse.  An'  much  he  thought 
to  himself,  but  said  naught,  knowin'  that  one 
day  more  would  set  him  free  o'  them,  an'  eager 
to  be  off  an'  doin'  man's  deeds. 

When  they  rode  into  the  outer  court  o'  King 
Murtagh's  dwellin',  there,  standin'  in  a  door- 
way, was  Princess  Morna;  an'  Love  o'  Sunshine 
was  she,  for  on  her  sweet  head  it  shone  like 
the  rare  gold.  When  Culain  set  eyes  on  her, 
'twas  as  if  fire  had  leapt  into  his  heart,  an'  he 
cast  his  burden  far  from  him,  in  the  hour  o' 
his  freedom,  scornin'  the  touch  of  it.  But  all 
around  were  laughin'  at  the  look  o'  the  beggar- 
men,  an'  many  stout  warriors  gathered  nigh. 

Dread  o'  bein'  forced  to  wed  one  o'  these 
beggar-men  was  in  the  heart  o'  Morna,  but  she 
raised  her  head  bravely,  an'  called  on  Taig  to 
show  his  gift.  So  he  knelt  down  and  whispered 


THE  SERVIN'  O'  CULAIN  131 

a  word,  an'  there  on  the  hard  trodden  earth  o' 
the  court  bloomed  many  gay  flowers. 

"Go  ye  within  an'  wait,"  says  Morna,  " while 
I  see  yer  companions." 

So  Taig  entered  the  door,  feelin'  sure  o' 
triumphin' ;  an'  one  who  had  a  secret  word  from 
the  princess  brought  him  a  horn  o'  sthrong 
mead. 

"  'Tis  no  use  at  all,"  whispered  the  servin' 
man.  "Betther  nor  that  gift  has  been  brought 
before.  But  I'll  give  a  gold  piece  to  know  the 
word,  for  pleasurin'  me  sweetheart. "  An'  Taig, 
greedy-like,  clutched  the  gold  an'  told  it.  An' 
at  once  he  was  flung  out  at  the  little  back  gate, 
among  the  swine-herds. 

Next  came  Derg,  leavin'  Culain  holdin'  his 
horse  an'  carryin'  the  sword,  forgettin'  that  the 
time  o'  servin'  was  up.  An'  Derg  whistled — 
an'  from  the  sky  came  a  hundred  singin'  birds, 
twitterin'  as  in  early  springtime.  So  then 
Morna,  fearin'  his  looks  worse  nor  the  other, 
sent  him  in  afther.  An'  when  he  had  dhrunk 
mead,  it  went  with  him  as  with  Taig,  for  he  sold 
his  secret,  thinkin'  that  he'd  no  chance  o' 


132  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

winnin'  Morna  whatever — an'  was  pushed 
stumblin'  out  among  the  pigs. 

Last  of  all  Morna  looked  up  an'  saw  Culain, 
standin'  poorly  dressed,  but  proud  an'  well  to 
look  on. 

"Have  ye  also  a  gift  that  no  gold  can  buy!" 
says  she,  half  tremblin',  an'  wondherin'  at  his 
differin'  so  from  Taig  an'  Derg. 

"Ay,"  says  Culain. 

"An'  what?"  says  Morna. 

"  'Tis  the  thrue  love  of  a  king's  son,"  says 
he.  Right  quick  he  caught  the  gladness  fillin' 
her  eyes ;  an'  never  waitin'  for  askin',  he  sprung 
to  the  saddle,  swung  her  up  before  him,  an' 
headed  for  the  outer  gate. 

"  'Tis  the  beggars'  servant  stealin'  the  prin- 
cess!" shouted  those  round,  tryin'  to  catch  the 
bridle — but  a  word  to  the  horse  was  all  that  was 
needed.  An'  though  many  a  stout  fightin'  man 
drew  sword  an'  spear  to  stay  them,  Culain  was 
too  swift  an'  skilled  with  thrust  an'  parry — an' 
before  any  thought  to  bar  the  gate,  he  had  cut 
his  path  out  over  warrior  an*  servin'  man,  an' 
was  ridin'  like  the  wind  over  the  moorland  an' 
through  the  forest.  An'  never  did  he  draw  rein 


THE  SERVIN'  O'  CULAIN  133 

till  he  reached  the  castle  o'  Ciad,  an'  claimed 
the  kingdom  due. 

An'  happy  he  lived  all  his  life  with  Morna, 
Love  o'  Sunshine,  each  havin'  that  gift  which 
no  gold  could  buy,  an'  blossomin'  flowers  an' 
the  singin'  o'  birds  at  their  will,  summer  an' 
winter. 

["An'  that's  how  the  son  o'  Ciad  learned  the 
thrue  worth  o'  bein'  a  right  king."] 


HOW  COBMAC  LOST  HIS  KINGDOM 

["Another!  An'  one  with  fightin'  in  it!  Ah— h, 
now,  'tis  little  small  girls  should  take  shame 
for  likin'  to  hear  o'  such  matthers!  Not 
but  what  there  was  a  power  o'  battlin'  in 
those  days;  an*  men  strivin'  to  see  which 
was  sthronger,  an*  often  settin'  crafty  wits 
against  stouter  arms  nor  their  own.  Wait, 
now,  while  I  tell  yees  how  King  Cormac 
was  afther  losin'  his  kingdom."] 

COEMAC  o '  Straight  Words  they  called  him,  for 
'twas  never  a  lie  nor  a  thrick  he'd  stand  from 
any  that  came  in  his  way;  an'  he'd  never  shrink 
back  from  his  word  once  given.  'Twas  ruler 
of  a  fine  share  o'  the  land  he  was,  lyin'  well 
up  to  the  north  o'  the  Sea  o'  Moyle.  An'  by 
that  raison  his  coasts  were  aisy  an'  open  to  the 
134 


HOW  CORMAC  LOST  HIS  KINGDOM    135 

long  ships  o '  the  Northmen,  that  came  from  the 
islands  over  an'  toward  the  mainland.  How  an' 
ever  'twas,  though,  there 'd  never  been  a  time 
when  he'd  not  beaten  them  off  an'  them  glad 
o'  their  lives  to  get  away. 

A  gran'  sthrong  man  he  was,  an'  ever  in  the 
foremost  where  throuble  was  brewin';  an'  then 
'twas  ''look  out!"  for  other  men  (though  never 
was  Cormac  known  to  harm  one  weaker  nor 
himself  by  way  o'  showin'  his  power). 

An'  three  fine  lads  he  had, — right  sons  o'  his 
house,  barrin'  they  were  not  yet  grown  to  age 
for  handlin '  bow  nor  spear.  But  well  were  they 
afther  showin'  the  marks  o'  the  race  they  came 
of,  that  was  bold  warriors  clear  back  to  nobody 
knows — an'  the  times  o'  Fin-mac-Cool — not 
alone  through  Cormac,  but  by  way  o'  Muireall, 
their  mother,  that  was  no  more  livin'. 

Now  when  all  had  been  quiet  an'  peaceable 
along  the  coasts  for  a  year  or  two,  an'  all  in 
the  land  was  thrivin',  word  came  in  on  the  wind 
that  Haco,  the  fiercest  chief  o'  the  Northmen, 
was  gatherin'  a  great  fleet,  filled  with  armed 
fightin'  men,  to  win  Cormac 's  rich  kingdom  an' 
hold  it  for  himself.  An'  great  preparin'  to 


136  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

meet  him  there  was,  an'  gather-in*  o'  warriors 
from  far  off. 

Sure,  Cormac  made  scant  doubt  o'  dhrivin' 
them  back  like  straws  blowin'  before  the  temp- 
est; yet  for  care  o9  the  chancin'  o'  war  he  sent 
the  three  sons  o'  him,  that  was  wild  already 
to  stay  by  him  through  the  battle,  far  south  to 
a  little  huntin'  lodge  by  the  Lough  o'  the  Eagle, 
where  neither  Dane  or  man  o'  the  North  Islands 
knew  the  road  to  follow;  thinkin'  himself  free 
to  fight  sthronger  with  them  out  o'  reach. 

An'  a  great  campin'  place  was  made  on  the 
plain  above  the  sea,  an'  watchers  a  many  had 
piles  o'  wood  laid  for  firin'  on  the  hilltops, 
to  give  word  o'  the  comin'  o'  the  Northmen  if 
'twas  by  night.  Then  Cormac,  seein'  that  all 
was  ready,  an'  in  wait,  swore  a  sthrong  vow 
on  his  sword,  an'  sent  word  o'  that  same  to 
Haco,  by  a  sure  messenger. 

For  three  days  an'  three  more  came  wind 
from  the  south,  an'  no  word  o'  the  Northmen. 
Sure,  'twas  fair  reckless  Cormac  was  growin', 
for  weariness  o'  waitin';  an'  bein'  unable  to 
take  sleepin'  aisy,  there  came  an  hour  o'  the 
night  when  he  wandhered  up  over  the  downs 


HOW  CORMAC  LOST  HIS  KINGDOM    137 

an'  into  the  forest,  near  to  the  Glen  o'  Yew 
Trees.  An*  few  men  o'  those  parts  cared  to  be 
neighbour  to  that  same,  knowin'  it  for  the  home 
o'  the  Little  People,  an'  dreadin'  the  wrath  an' 
pnnishin'  o'  Cormac,  that  had  made  pact  with 
them  that  no  man  o'  his  should  be  afther  dis- 
turbin'  them  by  day  or  night. 

So  Cormac,  fearin'  naught,  was  walkin'  slow 
under  the  trees,  keepin'  ever  a  ready  ear  for 
any  stirrin',  when  sudden  before  him  glimmered 
a  wee  light,  an'  there  on  the  brown  pine  needles 
strewin'  the  ground  before  him  stood  the  Little 
Green  King,  noddin'  to  him  in  greetin'. 

"  'Tis  yer  friend  I  am,  Cormac,"  says  he, 
"an'  'tis  wise  ye '11  be  to  heed  the  counsellin' 
I've  in  me  heart  for  ye;  for  if  ye  scorn  it,  evil 
will  come  in  an  hour  that's  on  its  road  to  ye,  an' 
evil  that  no  power  o '  mine  may  ward  from  ye. ' ' 

"Can  we  not  beat  off  all  that  come  by 
strength  of  our  own  arms,  then?"  asked  Cor- 
mac, brave-hearted  whatever  happened. 

"Ay,  when  the  time  is  ripe,"  says  the  Little 
Green  King.  "But  evil  is  in  the  wind  that  is 
turnin'  from  south  to  north  before  its  right 
hour — bringin'  the  ships  o'  Haco  in  the  days 


138  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

when  fortune  an'  the  trolls  may  be  afther 
favourin'  them.  Sure,  for  two  days  in  each  year 
the  power  o'  the  Little  People  goes  from  them, 
an'  their  goodwill  profits  naught  to  their  friends 
till  those  hours  be  passed.  Hearken  to  me,  Cor- 
mac,  father  an'  son  o'  kings.  Ye've  sworn  a 
pact  with  me,  that  none  o'  yer  people  shall  speak 
ill  o'  mine,  or  harm  our  grass  rings  in  the  deep 
o'  the  forest,  or  dig  about  our  mounds;  an'  well 
have  ye  kept  that  same." 

"Ay,"  says  Cormac,  "that  have  I  done,  an' 
will  while  life  is  in  me,  for  thrue  friend  o '  mine 
have  ye  been — sendin'  harvest  betther  nor  any 
in  lands  far  or  near,  an'  fair  days  an'  sunshine. 
An*  when  'twas  rare  huntin'  I  was  afther 
wantin',  the  deer  an'  wild  fowl  were  fair  eager 
to  run  an'  fly  in  me  path." 

An'  again  he  gave  his  word,  swearin'  on  the 
crossed  staff  an'  serpent. 

Then  says  the  Little  Green  King:  "For  that 
shall  ye  keep  favour  o'  the  Little  People, 
whether  yer  kingdom  last  or  fall  from  ye.  An' 
for  that  do  I  give  ye  wise  counsel,  that  may  save 
all  yet.  Wait  ye  in  the  forest,  dhrawin '  yer  men 
into  hidin'  in  the  glens  for  but  two  days,  an'  let 


HOW  CORMAC  LOST  HIS  KINGDOM    139 

the  Northmen  search  as  they  will,  growin'  care- 
less. In  the  third  day  shall  ye  rise  an'  dhrive 
them  into  the  sea ;  an'  victory  shall  ye  have,  that 
none  callin '  them  kin  shall  dare  come  af ther  for 
revengin'." 

"Nay,"  says  Cormac,  "that  is  ill  counsel  to 
a  king  an'  a  warrior.  On  the  shore  will  I  meet 
with  Haco,  come  he  by  night  or  day,  in  fair  sun- 
light or  grey  tempest." 

"  'Tis  but  waitin'  for  the  third  day,  an' 
masthery  sure  afther,"  says  the  Little  Green 
King. 

"  'Tis  but  breakin'  me  word  given,"  says 
Cormac.  An'  for  all  the  persuadin'  talk  o'  the 
little  man,  no  other  answer  would  he  give. 

Then  says  the  little  king,  seein'  that  naught 
would  move  him  whatever : ' '  Hear  me  last  word, 
Cormac,  that  may  soon  be  without  a  kingdom. 
Do  no  ill  to  the  ships  o'  Haco  till  ye  have  him 
conquered  by  land.  While  they  lie  on  the  shore 
the  Danes  will  know  that  there's  a  way  o'  re- 
treatin'  open,  an'  they  may  take  it  an'  fly  when 
Haco  is  never  thinkin'.  But  if  the  ships  be 
burned  an'  broken,  then  will  the  fury  o'  mad- 
men an'  the  power  o'  the  trolls  come  in  their 


140  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

blood,  an'  none  can  resist  their  onsettin'.  An* 
no  strength  will  I  have  to  aid  ye  in  that  hour." 

"  'Tis  no  aid  I'm  askin',"  says  Cormac. 

"Then  on  ye  I  lay  three  geasa,"  says  the 
Little  Green  King  (an'  those  same  were  spells 
that  Cormac  couldn't  help  obeyin').  "First, 
that  ye  suffer  no  man  save  f reeborn  warriors  in 
yer  camp.  Second,  that  ye  carry  in  yer  belt 
these  three  darts,  keepin'  them  for  the  hour 
when  the  battle  turns  against  yees.  'Twas 
forged  by  Len  they  were,  an'  under  the  rainbow 
were  they  tempered,  that  no  armour  can  stay 
them.  A  score  o'  men  shall  fall  where  one  flies. 
Use  two  as  need  comes,  but  hold  back  the  third 
for  yer  darkest  hour,  ever  mindin '  that  'tis  the 
last,  an'  none  to  follow  afther.  An'  the  third  is 
this,  Cormac  that  scorns  aidin',  that  ye  sthrip 
the  jerkin  from  the  first  man  ye  kill,  an'  wear  it 
above  yer  own." 

With  that  word  he  was  gone  from  seein',  like 
the  starlight  glimmer  on  a  knife,  an'  Cormac, 
grippin'  fast  the  three  darts  o'  Len,  hastened 
back  to  his  men,  seein'  far  in  the  sky  to  the  north 
the  light  o'  the  burnin'  signals.  An'  before 


HOW  CORMAC  LOST  HIS  KINGDOM    141 

night  was  gone,  he  had  sent  far  from  his  camp 
all  that  were  not  warriors  born  o'  free  blood. 

Now  as  day  came  out  o'  the  dark,  down  the 
north-east  wind  came  rushin'  the  long  ships  o' 
Haco,  with  black  sails  showin'  far  against  the 
white  foamin'  waves,  an'  shields  glitterin'  alon^ 
the  sides  o'  them.  An'  right  at  the  shore  they 
headed,  dhrivin'  far  up  on  the  sand  with  the 
risin'  tide. 

Then,  with  a  great  cryin'  out,  Cormac  an*  his 
men  swept  down  along  the  cliff-side,  the  sun  glis- 
tenin'  on  their  bronze  armour  an'  rich  tores  o' 
gold,  an'  the  ash  shafts  whirrin'  ahead  to  let 
Haco  know  what  was  comin'.  Sure,  the  battle- 
axes  swung  under  the  blue  o'  the  cold  sky,  an' 
there  was  clashin'  o'  swords  an'  spears,  an' 
wild  strugglin'  for  masthery  up  an'  down  the 
sand,  where  none  heeded  the  splashin'  o'  waves 
about  their  feet,  nor  the  tanglin'  o'  the  salt 
grass. 

An'  from  the  first  man  slain  by  Cormac,  he 
sthripped  the  green  coat  that  he  wore,  never 
carin'  for  the  wondherin'  o'  those  nigh,  but 
puttin'  it  on  over  his  armour;  an'  all  through 


142  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

the  fightin'  the  sight  of  it  made  the  men  o*  Cor- 
mac  wild  for  folio  win*. 

As  dark  dhrew  on,  the  Danes  an*  men  o'  the 
islands  were  forced  back  across  the  bulwarks  o' 
their  ships  for  shelter;  an'  Cormac,  with  his 
warriors  (an'  fresh  they  were  still,  for  all  the 
heat  o'  their  fightin'),  went  back  to  the  shadow 
o'  the  cliffs  an'  built  fires  for  the  night.  But 
Cormac  set  watchers  to  see  that  no  surprise 
came  to  those  sleepin',  an'  himself  kept  guard, 
foremost  of  all,  knowin'  Haco  an'  his  men  to  be 
full  o'  cunnin'  not  to  be  thought  light  of.  Yet 
had  he  feelin'  o'  triumphin'  because  he'd  beaten 
them  back  without  aidin'  from  the  Little  People, 
for  all  the  Danes  outnumbered  his  own  men. 

And  that  no  plannin'  o'  his  should  go  strayin', 
he  called  aside  Cogoran  an'  Duach,  that  were 
chiefs  under  him,  tellin'  them  the  words  o'  the 
Little  Green  King.  An'  they  three  shaped  out 
together  how  the  battle  should  be  at  the  hour  o ' 
dawn,  catchin'  the  men  o'  Haco  asleep.  An' 
while  the  words  were  still  in  the  air,  there  came 
a  rustlin'  o'  dead  leaves  behind  a  great  oak,  that 
had  fallen  in  a  winter  storm  long  past.  Quick 
they  sprang  to  see  who'd  been  listenin',  an' 


HOW  CORMAC  LOST  HIS  KINGDOM    143 

Cogoran  leaned  over  an'  dragged  out  a  little 
bent  man,  blinkin'  an'  rubbin'  his  eyes  in  the 
glare  o'  the  fire. 

"  'Twas  hearkenin'  he  was,"  says  Duach, 
fierce  an'  angry. 

"Nay,"  whispered  the  little  sthrange  man. 
"  'Tis  from  the  ships  o'  Haco  I  come.  A  man 
o'  these  parts  I  am,  taken  prisoner  in  an  old 
raid,  an'  this  night  I  slipped  off  the  ship  when 
none  saw  me,  an'  here  to  cry  to  Cormac  for 
freein'.  Forbye  bein'  weary  from  toilin'  at  the 
oar,  I  fell  to  sleepin'  in  the  leaves,  and  heard 
naught  till  this  warrior  gripped  me. ' ' 

"Were  ye  born  free  warrior?"  asked 
Cogoran. 

"Ay,  that  I  was,"  says  the  crooked  one. 

"An*  what  man's  man  were  ye?"  asked  Cor- 
mac. 

"The  man  o'  no  man,"  says  the  other.  An' 
then  Cormac  looked  closer,  an'  knew  him  to  be 
one  that  had  come  to  serve  him  in  early  days; 
the  son  of  a  poor  kerne  he  was. 

"Is  not  yer  name  Keir?"  he  asked. 

"Ay,"  says  the  man. 

"Then  well  I  mind  ye,"  says  Cormac.    "No 


144  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

free-born  warrior  are  ye,  but  a  servin'  man,  an' 
son  o '  Barach,  that  was  bondman  to  King  Aodh, 
me  father.  Here  can  ye  not  bide,  for  all  save 
men  o'  free  blood  will  bring  ill  fortune  to  the 
day  comin'.  Take  food,  what  ye  will,  an'  go  yer 
way  into  the  forest  till  the  battlin'  be  over." 
An'  Keir,  hatin'  him  for  his  words,  crept  away 
without  more  speakin',  an'  quiet  through  the 
bushes,  an*  down  the  cliff-side  to  where  the 
fightin'  had  been  that  day. 

Now  on  the  ship  o'  Haco  was  anger  an*  deep 
dhrinkin',  an'  great  boastin'  o'  what  would  be 
done  next  day ;  but  Haco  stood  on  the  deck  for- 
ward, lookin'  at  the  darkenin'  cliffs,  an'  thinkin' 
o'  bein'  king  in  room  o'  Cormac,  that  had 
sthruck  down  more  nor  a  score  o'  his  men  that 
day.  An'  as  it  grew  late,  there  was  a  small  bent 
man  crept  up  to  him,  comin'  out  o'  the  shadows. 

"What  will  ye  give  if  I  show  ye  the  road  to 
beat  down  Cormac?"  asked  he. 

"Yer  freedom  an'  land  o'  yer  own,"  says 
Haco,  laughin'  in  his  yellow  beard  at  the  wiz- 
ened face  o'  him. 

"Then  is  the  payment  mine,"  says  Keir. 
Ah — h,  but  an  evil  snake  o'  the  earth  was  that 


HOW  CORMAC  LOST  HIS  KINGDOM    145 

same,  knowin'  his  own  counthry-side  as  he  did; 
for  all  the  plannin'  o'  Cormac  an*  the  counsel 
o'  the  Little  Green  King  did  he  tell  to  Haco, 
offerin'  to  guide  him  unbeknownst  to  a  road  up 
the  glens,  an'  bethrayin'  those  o'  his  own  birth- 
land  into  the  clutches  o'  the  Danes. 

"An*  'tis  meself  that  has  not  forgot  the  day 
when  Cormac  had  me  whipped  for  mistreatin'  a 
servin'  lad!"  says  Keir.  "Now  'tis  me  hour 
for  payin'him." 

"Ay,"  says  Haco,  "but  first  shall  ye  dress  as 
a  free  warrior  o'  Cormac 's  men;  fight  or  be 
afther  seemin'  to  fight  in  his  ranks,  that  ye 
bring  him  ill  fortune;  an'  lead  me  men  to  the 
Glen  o'  Yew  Trees." 

An'  Keir,  tremblin'  for  what  might  come, 
dared  say  naught  against  it. 

Then  Haco  fell  to  chucklin'  in  his  beard. 
"  'Tis  plain  what  is  the  wise  road  for  us,"  says 
he.  An'  straight  he  went  to  the  men  commandin' 
the  other  ships,  an'  together  they  laid  plot  to 
break  holes  in  the  boards  o '  the  ships  when  the 
fightin'  had  begun;  an'  to  dhrive  the  men  o' 
Cormac  toward  the  Glen  o'  Yew  Trees,  forcin' 
them  to  gain  the  ill-will  o'  the  Little  People 


146  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

(barrin'  none  save  Keir  knew  where  that  glen 
lay). 

'Twasn't  half  o'  no  time  before  all  were  on 
foot  again;  an'  the  Danes  kept  well  together 
an'  pushed  for  the  top  o'  the  cliffs.  But  sure, 
Cormac  was  ready  there  in  the  faint  dawnin' 
light,  waitin*  to  give  them  such  welcome  as 
they'd  never  tasted.  An'  while  on  the  day  be- 
fore had  been  shoutin'  an'  wild  calls,  now  was 
scarce  a  sound  beyant  the  sword-sthrokes  an' 
whirr  o'  flyin'  arrows  among  the  oaks. 

Two  times  were  the  men  o'  Cormac  pressed 
back  by  Haco,  an'  both  times  Cormac,  speedin' 
one  o'  the  darts  o'  Len,  sthruck  down  the  fiercest 
o'  those  before  him,  whirlin'  them  apart  like  an 
eddy  o'  wind  in  a  pile  o'  dhry  leaves,  an'  the 
Danes  fell  away  in  turn.  At  last  Haco,  growin' 
impatient,  gave  signal  to  those  at  the  ships;  an' 
in  a  flash  o '  time  a  great  hole  was  stove  in  each 
bow,  so  that  they'd  float  no  more. 

'Twas  growin'  toward  night,  an'  when  the 
Danes  heard  the  crashin'  o'  the  axes  on  the 
wood,  an'  knew  what  had  passed,  they  thought 
it  the  work  o'  the  men  o'  Cormac.  Like  wild 
boars  at  bay  they  turned  an'  flung  themselves 


HOW  CORMAC  LOST  HIS  KINGDOM    147 

against  the  spears  an'  swords  o'  their  foemen, 
without  waitin'  command  from  Haco;  an'  so 
close  were  they  all  together,  that  there  was  no 
space  for  dhrawin'  bow. 

An'  now  Keir,  that  had  been  waitin'  his  time 
an'  keepin'  out  o'  danger  behind  the  warriors  o' 
Connac,  slipped  by  an'  pointed  out  to  Haco 
where  was  the  Glen  o'  Yew  Trees,  fearin'  goin' 
too  nigh  it  himself.  An'  Haco,  dhrawin'  off  a 
score  o'  his  best  warriors,  drove  the  mass  o* 
battlin'  men  little  by  little  toward  it,  pressin* 
an'  urgin'  them  ever  onward;  while  others, 
comin'  fresh  from  the  ships,  reached  the  main 
body  that  was  thryin'  to  seize  Cormac,  an'  gave 
them  new  strength. 

All  at  once  it  flashed  on  the  thought  o'  Cor- 
mac what  was  bein'  done,  an'  he  felt  the  last 
dart  burn  hot  in  his  hand.  Ay,  though  he  'd  been 
fightin'  like  a  right  hero  as  he  was,  he  was  nigh 
to  bein'  overpowered,  while  the  feet  o'  his  strug- 
glin'  men  were  already  at  the  head  o'  the  for- 
bidden glen,  without  any  seein*  where  they  were 
goin'.  Scarce  a  minute  had  he  for  choosin'  be- 
tween his  honour's  sake  an'  his  own  freedom, 
but  his  given  word  was  sthrong  in  his  heart,  an' 


148  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

the  dart  flew  whistlin'  far  from  him,  sthrikin'  in 
the  heart  o'  the  battle,  an*  breakin'  down  great 
trees  that  choked  up  the  mouth  o'  the  glen  so 
that  none  could  reach  it.  An*  under  all  was 
Keir,  havin'  received  his  freedom  an'  the  land 
on  which  he  lay,  rewardin'  him  for  bein'  a 
thraitor.  Sure,  he  never  knew  what  had  given 
him  his  death-blow. 

Then  as  the  Danes,  seem*  Cormac  unarmed, 
rushed  on  him  with  a  great  cry  o '  triumph,  the 
sun  sank  out  o'  sight  behind  the  mountains  an* 
he  was  gone  from  their  eyes.  An'  where  they'd 
been  sthrikin'  at  a  sthrong  warrior  in  a  jerkin 
o'  green,  sure  they  found  their  darts  an'  axes 
buried  deep  in  an  old  mossgrown  log.  An'  all 
that  night  they  searched  in  vain  for  him,  far  an' 
wide. 

But  Cormac ,  never  knowin*  how  it  came, 
opened  his  eyes  as  if  wakin'  from  sleep,  an'  saw 
himself  to  be  lyin'  on  the  shore  o'  the  Lough  o' 
the  Eagle,  with  the  sunrise  touchin'  the  hilltops 
around,  the  warm  wind  bringin'  the  song  o' 
birds  in  place  o'  the  battle-cries  that  had  been 
ringin'  in  his  ears,  an'  by  him  standin'  the 
Little  Green  King. 


HOW  CORMAC  LOST  HIS  KINGDOM    149 

"Where's  me  kingdom?"  cried  Cormac,  get- 
tin'  on  his  feet,  half  mazed. 

"Lost  an'  gone  by  the  choice  ye  made,"  says 
the  other.  "Against  yer  given  word  ye  set  it, 
an'  the  word  was  sthronger,  an'  won.  Cormac 
without  a  Kingdom  are  ye,  but  great  favour  o' 
the  Little  People  shall  be  to  ye  an*  yer  sons 
afther,  to  honour  the  word  of  a  thrue  man." 

"But  me  good  fightin'  men!"  cried  Cormac. 
"Naught  was  me  kingdom  to  me  in  worth,  be- 
side the  warriors  who  stood  battlin'  for  me  like 
thrue  brothers.  Never  would  I  have  left  them 
to  be  slain  without  me  sharin'  their  fate." 

"Aisy  now,"  says  the  Little  King,  laughin'  at 
his  own  thought.  "Ne'er  one  is  harmed  or  left- 
to  be  slave  to  Haco.  Many  a  day  may  the  North- 
men search,  but  naught  will  they  find  save  the 
bones  of  a  thraitor.  An'  though  Haco  hunt  long 
an'  weary  days  for  the  men  o'  Cormac,  far  off 
in  counthries  bey  ant  pur  sum'  are  they  an' 
theirs — an'  much  renown  shall  they  win.  An' 
while  Haco  an'  his  men  hold  the  ground  on 
which  they  tread,  yet  a  waste  shall  it  grow,  with 
neither  harvestin'  nor  huntin'  for  their  needs 


150  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

till  the  day  when  the  last  Dane  leaves  the  Little 
People  masthers  o'  the  land. 

"Not  even  meself  could  aid  ye  till  sunset  o' 
the  day  o'  the  weakness  o'  me  people ;  but  rulers 
o'  men  shall  yer  sons  be  in  the  end,  an'  strength 
an'  swiftness  beyant  that  of  other  men  shall  be 
for  ye  an'  for  them  afther,  while  wearin'  the 
green  jerkin  in  which  ye  fought  for  me — 
thrown'  the  last  dart  o'  Len  without  carin'  for 
yer  own  danger. ' ' 

So  King  Cormac — that  was  Cormac  without 
a  Kingdom,  through  keepin'  faith  with  the  Little 
People  that  trusted  him,  an'  through  holdin' 
fast  to  his  word  given — went  in  to  his  own  in  the 
rough  huntin'  lodge,  an'  lived  there  content  to 
the  end  o'  his  life.  An'  never  was  a  greater 
hunter,  nor  one  swifter,  nor  a  man  sthronger. 
An'  his  honour — held  fair  at  a  heavy  price — was 
a  word  for  rememberin'  many  a  year  afther, 
even  in  far  lands. 


WIND  AN*  WAVE  AN*  WANDHEBIN '  FLAME 

["  "Tis  mindin'  somethin'  that  happened  far 
an*  back  o'  the  times  o'  the  Little  People  I 
am.  Sure,  'tis  meself  had  nigh  on  forgot  it 
entirely,  but  when  all's  quiet  I'll  be  afther 
tellin'  it."] 

THERE  was  always  battlin'  somewhere,  back  in 
those  days;  an'  heroes  that  fought  with  sword 
an'  spear — forged  far  up  an'  under  the  rainbow 
by  Len  the  Smith,  that  was  mighty  in  all  sorts  o' 
wisdom. 

Now  one  time  he  was  beatin'  out  a  great 
shield  o'  gold;  an'  'twas  wrought  so  cunnin' 
that  who  turned  it  over  an'  laid  it  on  the  wather 
could  step  on  it  an'  sail  where  he  would.  An' 
for  a  device  on  it  he  made  roses  o'  the  fine  gold, 
raised  far  out  from  it,  as  they'd  been  growin' 
151 


152  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

right  there.  Almost  they  seemed  wavin'  in  the 
wind. 

An*  as  he  came  to  sthrikin'  the  last  blows,  his 
hand  slipped,  an'  his  great  hammer  went  flyin' 
downward  through  the  air;  an'  his  cry  o'  com- 
mand sent  ringin'  afther  it  was  too  late  to 
hindher. 

Now  'twas  about  toward  sunset,  an'  the  waves 
were  beatin'  high  an'  wild  afther  storm  on  the 
west  coast,  that  Artan,  son  o'  Duallach,  that 
was  a  king's  son,  was  huntin'  along  the  shore. 
All  day  he'd  been  tryin'  to  keep  from  the  com- 
pany o'  Myrdu,  his  half-brother,  but  only  by 
now  had  he  shaken  him  off ;  an'  he  was  runnin' 
swiftly,  for  gladness  o'  bein'  alone  with  the 
breeze  an'  the  flyin'  spray. 

Just  as  the  sinkin'  sun  touched  the  sea,  he 
heard  the  great  cryin'-out  o'  Len,  out  o'  the 
North,  an'  looked  up  into  the  deep  sky.  An' 
there  he  saw,  whirlin'  down  toward  him,  some- 
thin'  first  dark  an'  then  bright.  Not  a  fearin' 
thought  was  in  him;  an'  as  it  came  nigh  he 
sprang  with  hand  stretched  out  an'  caught  it — 
just  savin*  it  from  bein'  buried  in  the  beach 
sand. 


WAVE  AND  WANDHERIN'  FLAME     153 

The  force  of  its  fallm'  sent  him  to  his  knees, 
but  in  a  breath  he  was  on  his  feet  again,  lookin' 
at  what  he  held.  Sure,  'twas  nothin'  less  than  a 
great  hammer,  glowin'  an'  darkenin'  by  turns, 
as  there  had  been  livin'  fire  within  it. 

"What  'n  ever  are  ye,  then?"  cried  Artan, 
out  o'  the  surprise,  never  thinkin'  on  gettin'  an 
answer.  Yet  thrue  an'  at  once  came  a  whis- 
perin'  like  wind  in  pine  forests  far  off — 

"The  hammer  o'  Len." 

"An'  how '11 1  get  ye  back  to  him,  not  knowin' 
where  to  find  him?"  asked  Artan.  "Sure,  the 
winds  must  rise  up  an'  blow  me  to  the  end  o'  the 
rainbow,  where  he  sits,  or  I'll  never  get  there  at 
all." 

The  words  were  scarce  past  his  lips  when 
down  across  the  hills  came  a  warm  gust  o'  south 
wind — the  last  o'  the  storm — an'  caught  him  up, 
still  clingin'  to  the  hammer,  an*  swept  him  up- 
wards till  he  could  see  naught  for  mist  an'  hur- 
ryin '  clouds.  Then  came  a  f  eelin '  o '  sinkin ',  an ' 
a  sudden  jar ;  an'  there  he  was  standin'  on  green 
turf,  lookin'  at  white  mountains,  risin'  higher 
nor  aught  he'd  seen,  an'  between  him  an'  them 


154  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

shimmered  the  rainbow  itself,  glowin'  all  col- 
ours in  the  light  o'  sunset. 

"Ay,  'tis  aisy  seein'  where  I  am,"  laughed 
Artan,  startin'  toward  it  bravely. 

For  a  while  he  went  on,  an'  at  last  he  came 
nigh  enough  to  see  the  mighty  shape  o'  Len, 
standin'  waitin'  at  his  forge.  An'  while  night 
was  fast  comin'  on,  an'  the  stars  showin'  out  in 
the  sky  over  all,  yet^the  sun-fire  was  still  flamin' 
up  in  his  smithy,  workin'  his  will  at  a  word. 

If  fear  had  had  place  in  the  heart  of  Artan, 
then  was  time  for  it,  when  he  saw  the  deep  eyes 
o'  Len,  like  dark  sea-water  in  caves,  lookin'  far 
an*  through  him.  But  never  had  that  come  to 
him,  an'  without  speakin'  he  raised  the  hammer 
toward  the  sthrong  knotted  hand  that  claimed 
it. 

1  'Whist,  then!"  says  Len,  graspin'  it  quick 
for  fear  the  metal  was  coolin '.  "Say  naught  till 
I'm  done!"  With  that  he  beat  an'  turned  the 
shield,  an'  gave  the  endin'  touches  to  it.  Then, 
with  another  big  shout,  he  hung  it  on  the  rain- 
bow, flashin'  an*'  shinin'  till  men  on  earth  below 
saw  it  for  Northern  Lights  in  the  night  sky. 


WAVE  AN'  WANDHERIN'  FLAME      155 

"How  came  ye  here  in  me  forge,  Artan,  son  o' 
Duallach  I "  he  cried. 

'  *  That  I  know  not, ' '  spoke  out  Artan.  ' '  When 
I  held  yon  hammer  in  hand,  an'  cried  on  the 
wind  for  bio  win'  me  to  him  that  owned  it — for 
no  other  road  there  was  for  returnin'  it — the 
warm  blast  came  out  o'  the  south  an'  caught  me 
up  here." 

"Ay,"  laughed  Len,  deep  an'  hearty.  "The 
winds  are  at  the  will  o '  him  that  handles  it ;  but 
too  great  a  power  is  that  to  be  given  careless  to 
mortal  man.  What  reward  will  ye  have,  now? 
Whether  gold,  or  power  above  other  men,  or  the 
fairest  o'  maids  for  yer  wife?" 

Then  the  blood  reddened  the  face  of  Artan. 

"Naught  care  I  for  gold,"  says  he.  "An* 
power  over  men  should  be  for  him  that  wins  it 
fair." 

"Then  'tis  the  fairest  o'  maids  ye '11  be  afther 
wantin'?"  asked  Len.  "Have  ye  seen  such  a 
one?" 

"Nay,"  says  Artan.  "Dark  are  the  faces  in 
the  house  o'  Duallach,  an'  little  to  me  likin'." 

"Then  shall  ye  have  one  fair  as  day,"  says 
Len.  He  turned  to  where  the  shield  was  hangin', 


166  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

an*  from  the  heart  o'  that  same  he  plucked  a 
rose  o'  the  beaten  gold,  an*  gave  it  to  Artan. 

"Cast  it  in  the  sea  surf  at  sunrise,"  says  he, 
"callin'  'Darthuil!' — then  shall  ye  have  yer  re- 
ward. But  one  thing  mind.  Safely  yer  own  is 
she  not  till  first  lost  an'  won  back.  When  ye 
know  not  where  to  seek  aid  in  searching  cry  on 
me  name  at  the  seacoast,  an'  aid  will  there  be 
for  ye  if  ye  come  not  too  late — wind,  wave,  an' 
wandherin'  flame.  Never  does  Len  forget. 
Hold  fast  yer  rose." 

As  he  spoke,  again  came  a  gale,  chill  from  the 
north  this  time,  an'  whirled  Artan  past  cloud 
an'  above  surgin'  seas,  an  left  him  on  the  hilltop 
above  the  beach  at  the  last  hour  before  the 
dawnin'. 

Quick  Artan  hastened  down  the  cliff,  still 
graspin'  the  golden  rose,  an'  stood  where  the 
little  small  waves  curled  over  the  stones,  waitin' 
for  the  first  gleam  o'  the  sun  to  touch  the  sea. 
Hours  it  seemed  to  him,  but  minutes  it  was  in 
truth,  before  he  caught  a  long  breath,  raised  the 
rose  high  in  air,  an'  tossed  it  swift  an'  sure  into 
the  snowy  crest  of  a  green  incomin'  wave. 


WAVE  AN'  WANDHERIN'  FLAME      157 

"Darthuil!"  he  cried,  an'  the  cliff  echo  made 
a  song  of  it. 

As  the  drops  flew  upward  in  the  red  dawn  an' 
the  breaker  swept  in,  there  by  his  side  stood  a 
maid  with  the  gold  o'  the  rose  in  her  hair,  an* 
the  white  o'  sea-foam  in  her  fair  skin,  an'  the 
colour  o'  the  sunrise  in  lips  an*  cheek.  Blither 
nor  spring,  he  caught  her  hand  an'  led  her  over 
the  hills  to  the  house  o'  Duallach,  they  two 
singin'  for  joy  o'  livin'  as  they  went. 

Now  not  long  had  the  two  been  wed  (an'  wel- 
come were  they  under  the  roof  of  Duallach), 
when  Myrdu,  that  was  half-brother  to  Artan, 
but  older  nor  him,  came  back  from  far  huntin', 
ill-pleased  at  missin'  Artan  for  his  companion, 
an'  for  helpin'  him  carry  the  red  deer  he'd  shot. 

"  'Tis  an  ill  youth,"  says  he,  "an'  will  get  no 
good  from  lyin'  on  the  cliff  edge  an'  lettin'  the 
hunt  go  by. ' ' 

"Nay,"  says  Duallach,  slow  to  anger.  "Fair 
fortune  has  he  won,  an'  the  favour  o'  the  gods; 
an'  has  brought  home  a  bride,  fair  as  the  sun 
at  noon." 

Then  was  Myrdu  half  ragin'  from  bein'  jeal- 
ous ;  but  not  wishin'  to  show  that  same,  he  called 


158  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

for  meat  an'  dhrink  to  be  brought  him  in  the 
great  hall.  An'  Artan,  wishin'  to  be  friendly 
like,  cried  out  for  Darthuil  to  serve  his  brother. 
Sure,  when  Myrdu  saw  her  comin'  toward  him — 
shinin'  among  the  dark  lasses  o'  Duallach's 
household  like  a  star  in  the  night  sky — fury  was 
in  his  heart  for  thinkin'  that  Artan,  bein' 
younger  nor  him,  had  won  what  he  had  not,  an* 
soon  he  laid  plans  for  stealin'  her  from  his 
brother. 

'Twas  not  many  days  before  word  o'  this 
came  to  the  ear  o'  Duallach;  an'  he,  hatin' 
strife,  bade  Artan  an'  Darthuil  take  horse  an' 
ride  swiftly  southward  to  the  Lough  o'  the  Lone 
Valley,  to  dwell  on  the  little  island  in  it  till  evil 
wishes  had  passed  from  the  heart  o '  Myrdu.  So 
Artan,  mindin'  what  Len  had  foretold,  yet 
thinkin'  it  wiser  not  to  be  afther  losin'  Darthuil 
at  all,  rode  away  with  her  on  his  left  hand  when 
Myrdu  was  sleepin'  an'  not  knowin'  what  was 
bein'  done. 

When  he  roused  an'  found  them  gone,  an'  that 
none  o'  the  house  would  say  whither,  he  was  in 
a  fine  passion ;  but  he  made  as  if  he  was  afther 
goin'  huntin',  an'  took  his  two  fierce  hounds  an' 


WAVE  AN'  WANDHERIN'  FLAME      159 

went  off  to  trace  the  road  they'd  taken.  An' 
sure  enough,  'twas  not  many  hours  before  he 
was  on  their  path. 

Now  safer  would  it  have  been  had  Artan  told 
Darthuil  the  full  raison  why  he  was  takin'  her 
far  into  the  shelter  o'  forest  an'  lough  o'  the 
wilderness;  but  she,  trustin'  him,  asked  naught, 
thinkin'  no  evil  o'  livin'  man.  So  scarce  had 
Artan  left  her  in  the  low  cabin  on  the  island  an' 
gone  off  to  hunt,  than  Myrdu  pushed  through 
the  bushes,  leavin'  the  hounds  on  the  shore  be- 
hind, an'  floated  himself  out  to  the  island  on  a 
couple  o'  logs  lashed  with  a  thong  o'  deer-skin. 
Ay,  but  Darthuil  was  startled,  not  dhreamin' 
why  he'd  come. 

"  'Tis  Artan  is  hurt,  an'  afther  sendin'  me 
for  ye,"  says  Myrdu,  lookin'  down  unaisy  like, 
from  not  wishin'  to  meet  the  rare  clear  eyes  o' 
her.  "Come,  an'  I'll  take  ye  where  he  lies." 

Not  waitin'  a  moment  was  Darthuil,  then,  but 
Jiurried  doin'  as  she  was  bid,  never  thinkin' 
what  evil  might  be  in  store. 

Afther  a  few  hours  Artan  came  back  through 
the  trees,  an'  game  a  plenty  he'd  found.  He 
pulled  out  his  boat  o'  skins,  an'  quick  paddled 


160  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

back  to  the  island.  But  there  he  found  no  Dar- 
thuil; no,  nor  any  sign  o'  her  save  the  little 
print  o'  her  sandal  by  the  wather's  edge. 

Then  came  to  his  mind  the  promise  o'  Len. 
Never  darin'  to  waste  an  hour  searchin'  by  him- 
self, he  ferried  his  horse  across  to  the  mainland, 
mounted,  an'  pushed  for  the  sea.  Never  once 
did  he  stop  for  restin'  till  he  was  standin'  where 
the  waves  beat  over  him,  where  he  had  cried  on 
Darthuil,  an*  she  had  come  to  him. 

"Len!"  he  called.  "Yer  aidin',  Len!  Dar- 
thuil is  stolen  from  me. ' ' 

There  came  a  rumblin'  o'  thunder,  an'  on  the 
shore  stood  a  great  figure,  like  a  pillar  o '  cloud 
reachin'  half  to  the  sky. 

"Never  safe  yer  own  till  lost  an'  found,  I 
said,"  came  the  deep  voice.  "Now  I  give  ye 
wild  servants,  a  wind  an'  a  wave  an'  a  wan- 
dherin'  flame  for  helpin'  ye  to  bring  her  safe 
again.  Mind  well  that  each  will  obey  ye  but 
once,  so  call  on  them  only  when  yer  sharpest 
need  comes.  When  ye've  again  set  the  feet  o' 
Darthuil  safe  in  the  hall  o'  Duallach,  none  can 
take  her  from  ye  more.  Now  follow  yer  love. 


WAVE  AN'  WANDHERIN'  FLAME      161 

"Tis  to  the  Northland  has  Myrdu  carried  her. 
Let  him  not  pass  the  White  Eocks,  or  wind  an' 
wave  an'  flame  will  lose  power  to  aid  ye.  Use 
yer  wit,  now,  an'  use  it  well." 

Artan  would  have  spoken  to  thank  him,  but 
with  the  last  word  Len  was  no  more  there;  so 
he  mounted  again  an'  turned  to  the  north;  an' 
behind  him  came  the  wind,  whisperin',  over  the 
grass;  an'  the  wave,  runnin'  up  the  sthream 
near  at  hand;  an'  the  flame,  creepin'  among 
dhry  leaves,  but  settin'  fire  to  naught  else,  its 
time  not  bein'  come. 

Together  they  all  thravelled  the  betther  part 
of  a  long  day,  an'  late  on  Artan  saw  dust  risin' 
ahead.  'Twas  a  cloud  that  Myrdu  had  raised  to 
hide  the  way  he  was  goin',  an'  beyant  it  he  was 
ridin',  carrying  Darthuil  before  him  on  his  sad- 
dle o'  skins,  with  the  two  hounds  lopin'  along 
beside  to  fright  her  from  tryin'  to  escape,  an'  to 
give  warnin'  of  any  followin';  while  not  many 
miles  ahead  were  the  White  Rocks,  that  he  was 
pushin'  to  reach. 

On  hurried  Artan,  but  his  horse  was  wearied, 
an*  little  head  could  he  make.  Moreover,  the 


162  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

cloud  o'  dust  left  Tiin>  uncertain  o '  what  was  hid. 
So  he  thought  well,  an'  chose  wind  to  serve  him 
first. 

"Go  on,  an*  blow  the  dust  far  away,  whis- 
perin'  courage  to  Darthuil  the  while,"  says  he. 
An'  at  once  the  wind  sped  far  ahead,  obeyin' 
his  command.  When  the  two  dogs  felt  it  touch 
them,  they  cowered  low;  but  Darthuil  took 
heart,  knowin'  that  help  was  at  hand.  An'  the 
dust  was  no  more  hidin'  her  from  Artan,  so  she 
waved  her  hand  an'  called  aloud  to  him  to  ride 
in  haste. 

Then  Myrdu,  fearin'  that  he  might  yet  lose 
her,  threw  a  handful  o'  twigs  behind  him  in  the 
road;  an'  fallin'  they  turned  into  dead  trees, 
stoppin'  the  way  on  all  sides.  But  Artan  well 
knew  the  way  to  clear  his  path. 

"Go  forward!"  he  cried  to  the  wandherin' 
flame,  "an'  leave  not  a  trace  o'  them!"  As  he 
spoke,  the  flame  swept  up  high  in  air,  roarin' 
an'  smokin';  an'  in  half  an  instant  naught  re- 
mained o'  the  logs  but  a  pile  o'  smouldherin' 
ashes.  But  still  was  Myrdu  fast  nearin'  his 
goal,  an'  had  one  thing  more  for  helpin'. 


WAVE  AND  WANDHERIN'  FLAME     163 

He  dropped  a  little  sharp  knife  in  the  road- 
way ;  an'  as  it  fell,  it  cut  into  the  dust,  an'  there 
opened  a  wide,  terrible  chasm,  not  to  be  crossed 
by  horse  nor  man.  Then  Artan  grew  clear  des- 
perate. 

1  'Wave!"  he  shouted,  " bring  Darthuil  to 
me!" 

Up  then  it  rose,  rollin'  forward  like  floodtide 
in  spring;  an'  it  filled  the  gulf,  an'  swept  away 
dogs  an'  horse  an'  Myrdu  himself,  that  none 
were  heard  of  from  that  on;  but  Darthuil  it 
floated  gentle  like,  as  she  had  been  a  tuft  o' 
thistle-down,  back  to  Artan,  waitin'  for  her. 

He  caught  her  an'  clasped  her  close,  an' 
turned  his  horse,  an'  never  halted  till  he  led  her 
safe  into  the  hall  o '  Duallach,  where  none  might 
steal  her  from  him  again.  An'  there  they  lived 
happy  all  their  lives. 

But  as  for  the  wind  an'  the  wave  an'  the 
wandherin'  flame,  so  sweet  an'  fair  was  Dar- 
thuil that  ne'er  would  they  go  from  her  to  re- 
turn to  Len.  To  the  last  o'  her  life  the  wind 
blew  soft  for  her  when  'twas  overly  hot  else- 
where, an'  clear  cool  wather  flowed  up  from  the 


164  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

ground  to  save  her  dhrawin'  any  from  the  river, 
an'  fire  burned  bright  on  her  hearth  without 
need  o'  plenishing  an*  all  that  for  the  love  o' 
Darthuil,  that  was  made  By  Len  out  o'  the  foam 
tossed  by  the  wind  from  the  sea-wave,  an*  the 
wandherin*  flame  o*  the  sunrise. 


XII 

GRAINNE  THE  HAUGHTY 

["Naught  but  a  bit  o'  dhry  bread,  was  it,  ye 
were  castin '  away  ?  When  there 's  birds  an ' 
little  fishes  'ud  be  glad  of  it?  Some  day  ye 
may  go  wantin'  it!  Hear  how  one  prouder 
nor  ye  was  afther  learnin'  a  lesson  not  to 
be  slightin'  the  like!"] 

FAIR  an'  tall  was  Grainne,  with  shinin'  dark 
eyes  that  were  seldom  soft  in  smilin',  or  even 
seemin'  so  much  as  to  see  the  poor  by  the  road- 
Bide  an*  at  the  gates.  Eiches  had  she,  an'  many 
a  thing  to  be  proud  about,  by  an*  beyant  the 
bein'  sister  to  Euadan  Mor,  that  was  a  mighty 
sthrong  chieftain.  Far  up  on  a  broad  hill-plain 
was  his  dun;  an'  treasures  a  plenty  had  he  won 
in  battle,  makin'  a  name  for  himself  by  land  an' 
sea.  Many  a  brave  champion  came  thinkin'  to 
win  Grainne,  as  she  sat  high  among  her  servin' 
165 


166  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

maids,  in  Dun-glas,  spinnin'  the  white  wool  with 
her  distaff  o'  gold,  but  cool  greetin'  had  she  for 
the  best  o'  them. 

Now  on  a  fair  spring  day,  when  the  world  was 
goin'  well, — 'twas  Euadan  Mor  was  afther 
bringin'  Finola,  that  was  the  daughter  to  King 
Ferdoragh,  back  to  Dun-glas  for  his  wife.  A 
gay  train  was  that  came  ridin'  with  her;  war- 
riors in  silk  o*  scarlet,  an'  laughin'  girls  in 
white  an'  green  an'  gold,  on  horses  shod  with 
silver;  an'  back  o'  them  all,  an'  around,  came 
stout  fightin'  men  in  ringmail,  carryin'  spears 
an'  swords  o'  wrought  bronze,  for  guardin'  the 
princess  an'  the  rest. 

Sure,  Grainne  met  them  with  welcome,  an* 
had  a  great  feast  spread  in  the  hall,  to  do  honour 
to  Ruadan  Mor  an'  his  bride ;  an'  for  seven  days 
there  were  fine  rejoicin's,  through  all  Dun-glas 
an'  the  counthry  round.  More  nor  one  o'  the 
heroes  from  King  Ferdoragh 's  court  looked 
long  at  Grainne  the  Haughty,  but  naught  lay  in 
her  heart  for  any  man  o'  them,  barrin'  'twas 
thoughts  o'  bein'  too  high  for  him. 

"Why  will  ye  not  make  choice  o'  these?" 
asked  Finola,  gentle  like.  ' '  Sthrong  champions 


GRAINNE  THE  HAUGHTY  167 

an'  sons  o'  kings  are  Niall  an'  Kermad  an' 
Tuathall  mac  Osra.  Many  a  fair  maid  in  King 
Ferdoragh's  court  would  be  glad  o'  that  ye 're 
turnin'  from." 

"Ay,  then,"  says  Grainne,  with  flashin'  light 
in  her  eyes,  "for  why  was  it  no  man  o'  them 
that  ye  chose?  Betther  to  be  sister  o'  Euadan 
Mor,  nor  wife  to  a  weaker  man!"  An'  Finola 
could  set  no  word  against  that,  at  all,  for 
laughin'  an'  thinkin'  the  same  to  herself. 

Now  on  the  mornin '  o 9  the  seventh  day  'twas 
ridin'  out  for  far  huntin'  they  were,  with  horses 
an'  hounds  an'  a  golden  horn  to  each.  An'  as 
they  came  through  the  gate,  Tuathall,  bein'  in 
haste  to  push  ahead  where  Grainne  was  ridin', 
sthruck  against  an  old  crone  that  was  limpin' 
along,  an'  sent  her  down  in  the  roadway.  Niall, 
seein'  an'  pityin',  but  not  darin'  to  wait*  for 
fear  Tuathall  should  be  forehand  with  him, 
turned  his  horse,  not  to  graze  her,  tossed  her  a 
bit  o'  silver,  an'  galloped  on.  But  Kermad,  that 
was  youngest  o'  the  three,  leapt  from  his  horse 
an'  set  her  on  her  feet. 

She  shook  her  withered  hand  at  Tuathall — 
as  he  went,  never  lookin'  back — sayin',  "Ye 


168  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

shall  seek  for  that  ye 're  following  an'  never 
come  nigh  it!"  An'  afther  Niall  she  cried, 
"Many  a  day  shall  ye  pass  by  what  ye  most 
desire,  never  knowin'  it!"  But  on  Kermad  she 
looked  different  like,  an*  says  she,  "In  the  end 
shall  ye  win  what's  in  yer  heart!'' 

Kermad,  laughin'  an'  light-heart,  rode  off 
afther  the  hunt ;  but  says  one  that  Grainne  had 
spoke  sharp  to,  "Scant  good  will  it  be  to  him  to 
be  winnin'  Grainne  the  Haughty,  that's  in  his 
heart  the  now !  Bitther  proud  is  she  to  all  be- 
neath her,  holdin'  herself  higher  nor  kings' 
sons!" 

1 '  Is  she  that  ? ' '  says  the  crone.  ' '  Then  'tis  for 
me  to  be  doin'  me  part!"  An'  she  was  gone 
from  sight  like  a  whiff  o'  smoke. 

Now  at  first  Grainne  rode  by  Finola,  in 
mornin'  sunlight  that  came  through  the  trees 
an'  caught  the  dew  on  the  hillside  grass;  but 
afther  a  bit,  wearyin'  o'  havin'  Kermad  an'  the 
others  near,  she  waited  till  all  were  bendin'  for- 
ward to  look  at  a  spotted  fawn ;  an*  then,  turnin' 
the  head  o'  her  black  horse,  she  was  off  like 
light,  down  a  deep  glen,  no  one  seem'  her  go. 

Down  an'  on  she  pushed,  by  an'  beside  the 


GRAINNE  THE  HAUGHTY  169 

little  small  sthream  that  went  laughin'  through 
the  glen;  an'  while  with  one  soft  white  hand  she 
was  keepin'  her  horse  in  the  way  she  chose, 
swingin'  from  the  other  was  the  huntin'  horn. 
Afther  a  while  or  two,  when  she'd  nigh  on  for- 
got those  in  the  forest  above  her,  a  thicket  o' 
nut  bushes  barred  the  way,  an'  only  by  walkin' 
to  the  bed  o'  the  sthream  could  she  make  her 
way  through  them.  The  stiff  branches  would 
ha'  thrust  her  back,  but  never  was  Grainne  one 
to  be  turned  from  a  path  once  taken,  an'  she 
pressed  on  till  she  came  out  on  the  plain,  far 
from  any  parts  she'd  ever  seen.  An'  'twas  far 
past  noon,  for  shadows  were  fallin'  eastward. 

Lookin'  back,  up  the  far  mountain  side,  she 
could  make  out  no  way  o'  returning  for  the  run- 
nin'  wather  had  been  lost  in  the  nut-thicket,  an' 
tangled  boughs  o'  bushes  hid  the  way  she'd 
come.  A  wide,  lonely  plain  was  here,  with  no 
sound  o'  birds  singin'  or  trees  rustlin'  in  the 
wind;  an'  sudden  wishin'  she'd  been  less  head- 
sthrong  leavin'  the  hunt,  Grainne  put  the  golden 
horn  to  her  lips  an'  blew  a  long  blast.  But 
waverin'  it  echoed,  an'  no  answer  came,  for  all 
her  waitin'  an'  hearkenin'. 


170  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

Sure,  then  was  no  soft  feelin'  in  her  mind  for 
Niall  an'  Kermad  an'  those  others,  but  rather 
dark  anger,  blamin'  them  for  her  plight.  Hot 
with  so  much  as  havin'  let  them  be  in  her 
thought,  she  held  her  head  high  an'  looked 
round,  near  an'  far,  searchin'  for  sight  of  any 
that  might  guide  her  into  beaten  thrack,  but  no- 
where was  sign  o'  livin*  soul.  So  not  knowin' 
what  other  to  do,  she  set  off  toward  what 
seemed  like  a  mound  she'd  once  passed  when 
ridin'  eastward  from  Dun-glas.  'Twas  bad 
goin'  undher  foot?  with  hidden  bog-holes  to  be 
watchin'  for;  but  while  hunger  was  maMn'  her 
keen  to  be  reachin'  shelter  an'  food,  yet  each 
step  made  the  land  seem  more  lonesome. 

Well,  when  she'd  gone  a  good  arrow-shot,  she 
saw,  off  to  the  left,  in  a  sort  o*  clear  spot,  a  low 
round  hut  o'  woven  reeds  an'  clay,  an'  quick 
she  bent  her  way  toward  that  same.  As  she 
came  nigh,  peerin'  out  o'  the  door  was  the  head 
of  a  wrinkled  old  crone,  lookin'  scowlin'  at  her. 

"What  will  ye  be  afther  learnin'  o'  me?" 
asked  the  old  woman,  never  stirrin'.  "The  work 
o'  the  poor?" 

"Work?      An'    learnin'?"    cried    Grainne. 


GRAINNE  THE  HAUGHTY  171 

"What  should  ye  be  teachin'  me,  forbye  'tis  the 
path  to  Dun-glas !  Come  out,  while  I  speak  with 
ye!" 

The  crone  hobbled  out  o'  the  low  door,  mut- 
therin'  to  herself, — an'  came  beside  the  horse. 
"  'Tis  a  far  cry  to  Dun-glas,"  says  she.  "Bet- 
ther  for  ye  to  be  restin'  yer  horse,  before  goin' 
on." 

Grainne  shook  her  head.  *  *  That  will  I  not  I " 
she  cried.  "So  far  has  he  come,  an'  back  shall 
he  take  me.  Eest  can  he  have  in  Dun-glas,  where 
is  a  fitter  place  for  him  nor  this." 

Grainne  turned  eyes  on  her,  as  if  that  same 
had  been  honourin'  dust  beneath  her  feet. 
"Bring  me  food  an'  dhrink,"  she  ordhered. 
"Naught  have  I  tasted  since  early  dawn."  But 
when  the  crone  came  tottherin'  back  with 
muddy  wather  in  a  dhrinHn'  shell,  an'  a  broken 
cake  .0'  coarse  ground  barley  meal,  dark  an' 
hard,  'twas  angered  Grainne  was.  She  supped 
a  dhrop  or  two  of  the  wather,  bein'  sore  parched 
from  the  sun ;  but  when  she  took  the  crust  in  her 
hand,  'twas  not  she  would  be  bringin'  it  to  her 
lips. 

"Is  it  the  like  o'  that  ye'd  be  offerin'  to  the 


172  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

sister  o'  Ruadan  Mor,"  says  she,  "that  has 
never  eaten  aught  poorer  nor  white  bread  o' 
the  fine  wheat?  If  ye've  naught  fit  for  eatin', 
point  out  me  road  an'  let  me  be  goin'I"  an*  she 
flung  the  crust  into  the  muddy  pool  beside  her. 

The  old  crone  caught  up  the  bread  an'  wiped 
it,  keepin'  it  in  her  brown  withered  hand,  an' 
lookin'  at  Grainne  with  fear-givin'  eyes  as  she 
spoke:  "Grainne  the  Haughty  may  ye  be, — 
sister  to  a  great  warrior,  an'  sought  o'  princes 
that  know  not  the  hard  heart  o '  ye, — but  by  the 
food  that  would  ha'  fed  me,  that  ye  cast  into 
mud  an'  foul  wather  when  'twas  offered  to  yer 
need  an'  hunger,  never  shall  ye  go  free  till  ye've 
paid  the  score  by  givin'  me — here  in  me  hand — 
barley  bread  o'  yer  own  plantin'  an'  reapin', 
grindin'  an'  bakin'I" 

An'  while  Grainne  was  yet  starin'  at  her,  the 
crone  whispered  a  sthrong  spell  into  the  palm  o' 
that  hand,  an'  touched  the  horse  with  it,  an* 
then  threw  the  dhrops  from  the  dhrinkin*  shell 
over  Grainne.  Sure,  in  a  flash  there  was  no 
horse  there  at  all,  but  Grainne  was  standin'  on 
the  bog  turf,  scarce  believin'  but  what  all  was 
an  evil  dhream. 


GRAINNE  THE  HAUGHTY  173 

"Where's  me  horse?"  says  she. 

* '  Far  an '  away  in  Diin-glas !  Go  in  the  hut ! ' ' 
says  the  old  woman,  as  she  had  been  misthress 
o*  many. 

"That  will  I  not!"  cried  Grainne  again. 
"Ye've  no  power  for  keepin'  me  here!  'Tis 
Euadan  Mor  will  be  sendin'  out  men  for  seeHn' 
me,  through  all  the  land,  an'  a  sore  punishin' 
will  be  for  ye  I" 

"Nay!"  says  the  other,  with  a  sneerin*  laugh. 
"Naught  will  they  be  findin*  o*  Grainne  the 
Haughty!" 

"Naught?"  cried  out  Grainne,  the  fire-gleam 
in  her  eyes. 

"If  ye  doubt,  look  ye  in  the  pool.  What  ye 
see  in  it  shall  all  see  that  come  askinM"  An* 
Grainne,  glancin'  against  her  will  into  the  pool 
o'  dark,  still  wather,  saw  nothin'  at  all  but  the 
reflectin'  o'  two  white  hands.  Not  so  much  as 
the  shadow  o'  herself  was  lyin'  in  the  sunway 
across  it ! 

Now  back  in  Dun-glas  all  were  standin'  in  the 
courtyard  or  watchin'  from  the  tops  o'  the 
walls,  for  hours  had  gone  by,  an'  all  were  in 
from  the  huntin'  save  Lady  Grainne,  though 


174  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

men  mounted  an'  afoot  had  been  sent  scourin' 
the  hill-glens  for  sign  o'  her.  An'  even  as  they 
talked,  Finola  gave  a  cry,  an'  there  in  the  gate 
stood  Grainne's  horse,  none  havin'  seen  how  it 
came. 

"  "Tis  the  dark  powers  have  stolen  her 
away!"  says  Finola;  an'  many  thought  the 
same. 

"Then  shall  they  bring  her  again!"  says 
Tuathall  mac  Osra.  "  'Tis  meself  will  search 
for  her  a  month  before  givin'  up  hope  o'  findin' 
her, — ay,  an'  weddin'  her." 

"A  month?"  says  Niall.  "  'Tis  for  a  year 
an'  a  week  an'  a  day  I'll  be  afther  bin  din'  me- 
self to  keep  on  seekin',  an'  feel  paid  by  a  kiss  o' 
the  hand  o'  fair  Grainne." 

But  says  Kermad:  "If  I  find  her  not  in  a 
month,  for  a  year  will  I  search  an'  for  ten  years, 
an'  while  the  life  stirs  me  heart, — askin'  only 
the  hope  o'  bringin'  smilin'  to  the  dark  eyes  o* 
Grainne. ' ' 

So  over  the  mountain  sides  they  sought  her, 
an'  through  deep  glens,  an'  to  every  rath  an' 
dun,  hut  an'  grianan,  for  long  leagues,  trusted 
men  went  for  askin'  word  an'  for  tracin'  out 


GRAINNE  THE  HAUGHTY  175 

where  Grainne  might  be  hid.  An'  many  a  night 
that  followed  saw  them  draggin'  weary  feet 
back  to  Dfrn-glas  without  aught  o'  news.  An' 
Euadan  an'  Finola  mourned  for  her  as  one 
never  to  be  found  more. 

Hot  summer  came,  an'  Tuathall,  wearyin', 
rode  back  over  the  hills  to  the  court  o'  Fer- 
doragh;  yet  Niall  an'  Kermad  still  kept  holdin' 
to  hope,  while  autumn  winds  were  scattherin' 
dhry  leaves  here  an'  there,  anr  when  winter 
snows  covered  all. 

But  when  spring  days  were  warm  in  the  land, 
says  Niall  to  Kermad,  ridin'  from  a  far  glen 
toward  Dun-glas:  "  'Tis  dead  she  is,  or  in  the 
land  o'  the  Little  People!  Home  will  I  be 
turnin',  where  are  laughin'  fair  maids  a 
plenty. ' ' 

"  Farewell  tKen,"  says  Kermad. 

So  Niall  spurred  away,  an'  Kermad  spurred 
on  slow,  thinkin'  so  deep  o'  Grainne  that  he 
took  scant  count  o'  where  he  was.  By  an'  be- 
yant,  as  dusk  was  nigh,  he  came  to  an  open 
space  on  the  hillside,  an'  slackened  rein,  that 
his  horse  might  crop  the  young  grass.  Now 
here  in  the  open,  where  sun  would  come,  was  a 


176  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

bit  o'  bare  brown  earth,  as  it  had  been  fresh 
turned  up.  An'  as  the  horse  was  movin'  by  that 
same,  sudden,  out  o'  the  air,  came  two  white 
hands,  an'  turned  his  head  another  way.  Sure, 
Kermad  wondered,  all  amazed.  He  caught  up 
the  reins  an'  watched,  but  naught  more  did  he 
see,  barrin'  'twas  a  swirl  o'  white  mist  blown 
past  by  a  chill  wind. 

All  night,  back  in  Dun-glas,  he  couldn't  keep 
those  white  hands  out  o'  his  dhreamin',  so  like 
were  they  to  fair  ones  he'd  seen  spinnin'  white 
wool  from  a  golden  distaff;  an'  the  next  evenin' 
at  the  same  hour,  he  sought  the  far  clearin* 
afoot,  an'  waited,  hid  by  a  bush.  An'  as  the 
sunset  light  passed  from  the  treetops,  out  o' 
mist  came  the  white  hands  again,  graspin'  a 
rough  pointed  branch  an'  tryin'  to  dig  up  the 
earth  in  the  open,  but  seemin'  to  find  it  ill  work, 
there  among  stones  an'  rocks. 

Kermad  waited  till  the  hands  were  blown 
away  by  that  same  cold  wind  again,  an'  then 
dhrew  his  sword  an'  fell  to  diggin'  up  the  patch 
o'  ground  with  it,  an'  by  dark  'twas  turned  up 
for  planting  if  that  was  why  'twas  wanted. 


GRAINNE  THE  HAUGHTY  177 

Watchin'  next  evenin'  afther  that,  the  hands 
came,  sowin'  seed  careful,  an'  coverin'  it  with 
earth,  an'  they  bein'  drifted  away  before  all  was 
done,  'twas  Kermad  finished  the  plantin'. 

Sure,  while  he  still  kept  show  o'  wandherin' 
over  the  country,  all  his  thought  was  o'  the  little 
field  beyant,  an'  the  gentle  hands  that  tended  it. 
There  he  went,  time  afther  time,  an'  now  he'd 
see  them,  in  the  mist,  an '  then  maybe  not.  How- 
ever it  was,  the  summer  went  flittin'  by,  while 
he  saw  the  green  stalks  o'  barley  shootin'  up, 
there  in  the  forest,  an'  aided  keepin'  them  from 
bein'  weed-grown,  an'  brought  wather  there 
when  was  drought  for  a  time. 

The  ears  o'  the  grain  grew  ripe  an*  hard,  an' 
one  night  o'  full  moon  he  saw  the  white  hands 
pluckin'  them,  an'  rubbin'  them  to  rid  the  grain 
o'  chaff  an'  straw.  Sudden  he  began  thinkin' 
that  if  he  was  to  find  where  the  hands  came 
from,  'twas  time,  for  they  might  be  carryin' 
away  their  harvest  an'  not  returnin'.  So  when 
he  felt  the  wind,  he  followed  the  swirlin'  mist 
down  over  rocks  an'  briers  an'  roots,  never 
carin',  an'  at  last  over  bog  an'  marsh,  in  the 


178  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

dark  o'  mist  an'  fog,  to  a  low  hut.  An'  from 
the  door  came  an  old  crone,  holdin'  a  burnin' 
brand  up  in  the  night. 

"Finish  now  yer  lesson!"  she  cried, — an' 
Kennad,  watchin',  saw  the  hands  bring  out 
grindin'  stones  an'  crush  the  grain,  an'  then 
pick  up  sticks  an '  build  a  fire.  Next,  they  mixed 
the  meal  into  a  cake,  an'  set  it  to  bake  over  the 
coals,  an'  as  he  caught  sight  o'  them  clear  in  the 
fire-flame,  he  knew  them! 

Quick  he  sprang  from  his  hidin'  an'  grasped 
firm  hold  o'  the  crone's  arm. 

'  *  The  white  hands ! "  he  cried.  * '  'Tis  yerself 
has  hidden  Lady  Grainne,  an'  shall  do  it  no 
longer!" 

' '  'Twas  learnin'  the  work  o'  the  poor  she  was 
needin',"  mutthered  the  crone.  "What  is  she 
to  ye,  that  ye  should  keep  up  searchin'  for  what 
Euadan  Mor  gave  up,  a  year  gone  by?" 

"Dearest  of  all  in  me  heart!"  says  Kennad. 
1  *  Let  her  free  o '  yer  spells,  or  ill  shall  it  be  for 
ye!"  A  step  forward  he  took,  in  anger,  but 
paused,  feelin'  the  touch  o'  two  soft  hands 
holdin'  him  back. 

"Ay,  now  that  the  bakin'  is  done,"  says  the 


GRAINNE  THE  HAUGHTY  179 

old  woman,  as  if  not  seein '  him  or  carin  *  what  he 
would  do.  '  '-Give  me  here  the  cake ! ' ' 

An'  in  the  savin'  of  the  words,  the  servin' 
hands  laid  the  cake  in  hers.  In  two  pieces  she 
broke  it,  savin':  "Full  half  shall  be  mine,  as 
payin'  for  that  once  cast  in  the  mud;  an'  in  the 
other  share  lies  freein'  for  the  one  that  planted 
an'  reaped,  ground  an'  baked  the  barley  bread. 
But  hark,  now,"  turnin'  to  Kermad.  "  'Twas 
planted  an'  grown  by  helpin'  from  ye,  an*  not 
alone,  as  right  should  ha'  been.  That  share  I 
give  to  ye.  Will  ye  free  her  by  givin'  it?" 

"Ay!"  shouted  Kermad,  quick  snatchin'  the 
broken  barley  cake  from  the  crone's  fingers  an' 
holdin'  it  out.  No  swirl  o'  mist  he  saw  then, 
but  one  with  soft  smilin'  eyes,  an'  willin'  hands 
that  were  laid  in  his. 

The  crone  looked  at  the  two  standin'  there, 
then  whispered  a  charm  in  her  wrinkled  palm 
an'  blew  it  off  into  the  dark  night  air,  an'  all 
at  once  'twas  Grainne's  own  black  horse  was 
there  by  them. 

"Learnin'  an'  winnin'  is  done!"  cried  the 
old  woman;  an'  with  that,  hut  an'  crone,  mist 
an'  fog  an'  clouds  were  gone  on  a  gust  o*  warm 


180  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

wind.  But  open  lay  path  before  them,  over  the 
plain  an'  up  the  mountain  glen,  an*  back  to  Dun- 
glas  in  clear  light  o*  the  full  harvest  moon  rode 
Kermad  an*  Grainne — that  was  no  more 
haughty,  havin'  learned  the  work  o'  the  poor. 


xm 

LIGHT  O'  MB  EYES 

["  A  tale,  is  it ?    Well,  hearken  then. ' '] 

'TWAS  nigh  on  the  end  of  a  rare  fine  summer  day, 
an'  a  sweet  south  wind  stirred  in  the  boughs  o' 
the  trees  at  the  bend  o'  the  shore,  when  Alona, 
daughter  to  Fathach  the  Dhreamer,  came  down 
the  sea-glen  with  a  leaf-basket  o'  red  berries  in 
her  little  hands,  that  were  brown  with  the  sun. 

Clad  all  in  a  dress  o '  f  awnskin  she  was,  an '  had 
a  bow  at  her  back  like  a  right  hunter.  The  sun- 
flame  itself  glinted  in  her  curlin'  hair,  that  was 
but  half  held  in  by  a  twistin'  cord  o'  gold, — an* 
pure  grey  an*  clear  as  dewdhrops  on  grass  be- 
fore sunrise  were  the  laughin'  eyes  o'  her. 

Sure,  Mogh  the  swineherd,  that  was  cross  an' 
old,  rose  up  from  the  rock  on  the  shore,  where 
he'd  been  sittin'  by  a  sthranger, — an'  his  quare 
181 


182  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

pinched  face  shone  glad  at  seein'  her.  An*  says 
the  one  beside  him,  that  was  covered  head  an' 
all  with  a  rough  cloak : 

"Whose  are  the  light  soft  feet  I  hear 
comin'?" 

"Those  of  Alona,  child  o*  Fathach,"  says 
Mogh.  "But  Light  o'  me  Eyes  is  the  name  he 
calls  her,  an*  that  same  is  she  to  all  knowin'  the 
sweet  ways  o7  her, — barrin'  that  few  save  me- 
self  an'  the  man  Bobaran  ever  see  sight  o'  her 
in  the  sea-glen  o '  Fathach  the  Dhreamer. ' ' 

Then  Light  o'  me  Eyes,  seein'  that  one  not 
known  to  her  was  with  Mogh,  came  toward 
them;  an'  says  she: 

"Is  it  a  sthranger  come  journeyin'  this  way, 
Mogh,  an'  ye  not  afther  bringin'  him  to  me 
father  for  food  an'  shelter?  'Tis  no  kind  restin' 
place  for  one  weary,  on  rocks  by  the  shore,  with 
night  comin'  across  the  hills." 

At  that  the  man  raised  his  head  an'  flung  back 
his  cloak;  an'  'twas  the  right  noble  young  face 
he  had,  forbye  the  eyes  o'  him  were  closed.  An' 
in  his  hand  was  a  little  small  harp  o'  carven 
shell. 

Sure,  all  the  happiness  o'  Light  o'  me  Eyes 


LIGHT  O'  ME  EYES  183 

was  drowned  in  heart-ache,  lookin'  at  him. 
"Can  ye  not  see,  harper?"  says  she. 

"Nay,"  answered  the  harper.  "No  sight  is 
given  me  eyes,  o'  the  fair  sun  on  the  green  sides 
o'  tossin'  waves,  or  o'  the  dawn  growin'  bright 
on  the  dark  hills." 

"But  how  came  ye  here?"  she  asked,  won- 
dherin',  "seein'  as  how  the  roads  are  but  lost 
paths  in  the  forest,  an'  all  is  wild  land  for  many 
a  mile,  save  only  the  swellin'  place  o'  Fathach, 
where  he  sits  dhreamin'  o'  the  white  stars. 
Have  ye  not  come  by  a  wrong  way?" 

"Nay,"  says  the  harper  again,  "for  no  path 
chosen,  but  that  o  '  chance  do  I  follow.  Far  have 
I  wandhered,  through  storm  an'  wind,  through 
days  warm  an*  soft  with  sunshine ;  yet  never  has 
there  been  lack  o'  one  willin'  to  lead  me  on- 
ward." 

' '  Then  shall  hand  o '  mine  guide  ye  to  a  kindly 
roof  this  night,"  says  Light  o'  me  Eyes,  pitiful 
like.  '  *  'Tis  Fathach  me  father  is  well  pleased 
at  hearin'  harpin'  or  singin'  in  the  hall,  an'  has 
ever  welcome  for  one  comin'  weary."  An' 
givin'  the  berries  to  Mogh,  an'  biddin'  him  fol- 
low, she  led  the  harper  from  the  shore  an'  up 


184  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

the  glen,  watchin'  careful  that  no  stone  or  fallen 
branch  should  be  afther  trippin'  him. 

In  a  while  they  came  on  a  low  grey  house  o' 
logs,  in  the  turn  o'  the  glen,  where  a  light  smoke 
was  curlin'  up,  tellin'  o'  meat  roastin'  within'. 
An*  peerin'  from  the  door  stood  a  squat  little 
dwarf  of  a  man,  that  cried  out : 

"Food  is  waitin'  for  ye,  Light  o*  me  Eyes. 
Long  has  Fathach  been  pacin'  up  an'  down, 
restless  like,  for  that  ye  came  not." 

Then  says  Alona : ' '  'Tis  a  guest  I  have  here, 
Bobaran.  See  that  there's  meat  an'  dhrink  a 
plenty,  an'  give  a  horn  o'  mead,  an'  what  else 
ye  have,  to  Mogh,  that  was  afther  bringin'  him 
to  the  sea-glen." 

Quick  the  dwarf  servin'  man  ran  to  obey, 
hoppin'  an'  jumpin'  along:  but  Light  o'  me 
Eyes  drew  the  blind  harper  within  to  Fathach, 
an'  gave  him  a  seat  by  the  rough  hewn  table, 
tellin'  her  father  how  she'd  come  on  him. 

"  'Tis  welcome  ye  are^  for  a  day  or  a  year  o' 
days,"  says  Fathach,  that  was  tall  an'  bent, 
with  long  white  hair  an'  gentle  eyes  that  were 
misted  over  with  much  thinkin'.  "Eat  an* 


LIGHT  0'  ME  EYES  185 

rest."  An'  he  set  the  best  of  all  there  before 
the  wandherin'  harper. 

Now  when  all  had  eaten,  they  went  out  to'; 
where  benches  were  set  undher  a  great  oak  tree,' 
an'  sat  silent  in  the  dyin'  light  while  the  harper; 
played  old  songs  merry  an*  sad,  an7  at  last  a, 
fonnsheen  so  wild  an*  sthrange  that  Alona  cried 
out,  frightened  like, — raisin '  her  fair  head 
from  where  it  had  been  leanin'  on  Fathaeh's 
shouldher. 

"  'Tis  deep  in  dhreamin'  I  was!"  says  she. 
"A  long  road  was  I  thravellin',  an'  at  last,  by  a 
deep  river,  I  saw  two  stars  fallin'  from  the 
night  sky  into  a  golden  crown  that  I  was 
holdin'." 

11  Mayhap  'tis  a  dhream  not  all  a  dhream," 
says  the  harper.  "Hear  me  now,  Fathach,  an' 
you,  gentle  daughter  o'  Fathach.  Thanks  have 
ye  not  yet  had  o'  me  for  the  welcome  given,  or 
for  the  kind  word  that  is  far  more  nor  gold.  But 
even  as  I  give  them,  an'  tell  ye  me  errand,  do  I 
bring  ye  a  sthrange  knot,  hard  for  untyin'. 
Hear,  0  Fathach,  a  sure  token  o'  me  faith." 
An'  he  whispered  a  secret  word  in  the  ear  o' 


186  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

the  Dhreamer,  that  nodded,  under  standin'.   But 
Light  o'  me  Eyes  waited,  silent. 

Then  spoke  the  harper,  low  an'  sad.  An'  says 
he:  " Dalian — the  blind  one — was  the  name 
given  me  in  the  dun  o'  King  Ciad,  where  at 
many  a  high  feast  I  sang  brave  songs  to  cheer 
the  hearts  o'  men.  An'  now  that  gloom  sits 
there  in  place  o '  mirth,  for  many  a  day  have  I, 
an'  all  the  harpers  o'  King  Ciad's  court,  gone 
searchin'  wide  an'  far,  hopin'  to  find  one  that 
may  bring  back  seein'  to  the  King,  an'  save  the 
land  from  sore  sorrow  an'  an  evil  ruler.  For 
Balor,  kinsman  to  Ciad,  that  was  afther  hatin' 
him  for  bein'  alive  at  all — when  himself  had 
long  been  set  on  bein'  King  in  room  o'  one  far 
betther  skilled  in  the  fightin' — thricked  him  into 
breakin'  in  on  secrets  o'  the  Little  People, — 
Ciad  not  knowin'  where  himself  was  goin'.  An' 
they,  angered  at  any  overlookin'  them,  took 
sight  from  his  eyes  an'  left  him  helpless  that 
was  so  sthrong.  Now  is  there  cloud  o'  black 
war,  risin'  over  the  land,  an'  Balor  sayin'  that 
Ciad  should  be  no  more  King,  not  bein'  able  to 
lead  his  warriors  ift  battle.  Yet  have  the  people 
love  for  Ciad,  an'  naught  betther  nor  fear  an' 


LIGHT  0'  ME  EYES  187 

hate  for  Balor,  that  was  ever  layin'  heavy  bur- 
dens on  those  weak.  Sure,  a  year — now  nigh 
spent — did  they  set  for  waitin',  thinkin'  ever 
that  sight  might  come  back  to  the  right  King. ' ' 

"Can  that  be?"  asked  Light  o'  me  Eyes, 
eager. 

"One  that  had  favor  among  them  gained  a 
word  from  the  Little  People.  An*  they  told 
him:  'The  lovin'  touch,  on  darkened  eyes,  of  a 
maid  willin'  to  take  that  shadow  on  herself,  will 
free  one  blind  by  no  fault  o'  his  own.'  " 

"An'  has  none  been  found  willin'?"  asked 
Fathach. 

"None,"  says  the  harper,  touchin'  a  sad  note. 
"For  what  girleen,  lovin'  the  stars  an'  the  fair 
sun-dawn,  an'  the  gleam  o'  blossoms  in  the  fresh 
grass,  would  make  choice  to  go  in  darkness, — 
even  as  Ciad's  queen,  led  ever  by  tender  hands, 
— for  sake  o'  bringin'  sight  an'  safety  to  a 
sthrange  King  an'  a  people  dwellin'  far  from 
her,  when  never  one  at  Ciad's  court  nor  in  all 
the  land  about  but  shrank  in  dread  from  that 
same?" 

"Then  will  I  not  shrink !"  says  Light  o'  me 


188  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

Eyes,  soft  as  the  fallin'  of  a  rose.  "The  far 
questin'  is  done,  harper." 

Sure,  'twas  not  Fathach  nor  yet  the  blind 
harper,  but  Mogh  the  swineherd  that  sudden 
flung  himself  down  at  her  little  feet, — where 
she'd  risen  in  the  young  moonlight, — cryin'  out 
against  the  word  she'd  spoken. 

"Far  betther  had  I  let  the  sthranger  wandher 
over  the  cliff-side  an'  be  dashed  on  the  rocks  o' 
the  shore!"  says  he.  "What  is  he,  to  bring 
bitther  grief  to  the  sea-glen  o'  Fathach,  an'  a 
darkened  life  to  Light  o'  me  Eyes?" 

An'  says  the  harper:  "  'Tis  right  he  is! 
Naught  am  I  to  ask  it!" 

Then  says  Alona:  "  'Tis  not  ye  that  ask  it, 
not  yet  King  Ciad,  but  the  tremblin'  hearts  o' 
those  helpless  in  war,  an'  those  old,  with  white 
hair,  in  the  land  whence  ye  came,  Dalian!" 

"It  shall  not  be!"  cried  the  harper,  with  a 
wild  beat  on  the  harp  strings  that  echoed  far. 

"It  shall  be!"  says  Fathach,  grave  an'  stern, 
"for  the  white  stars  have  heard  the  given  word 
o'  Light  o'  me  Eyes.  This  night  will  I  spend 
watchin'  them,  to  gain  clear  counsel,  an'  it  may 
be,  learn  the  will  o'  them  far  sthronger  nor  Bal- 


LIGHT  0'  ME  EYES  189 

or  an'  the  Little  People.  An'  in  the  mornin' 
shall  Mogh  guide  an'  guard  ye,  through  the 
deep  forest  an'  to  find  Bang  Ciad." 

With  that  he  led  the  way  within :  an'  when  all 
were  sleepin'  sound,  he  went  out  under  the  open 
sky. 

Early  in  the  grey  o*  mornin'  all  was  made 
ready  for  departin'.  The  look  o'  deep  wisdom 
was  in  the  eyes  o '  Fathach,  but  his  words  were 
few,  as  he  bade  farewell  to  Light  o'  me  Eyes  an' 
gave  her  courage.  But  Mogh  he  held  back  till 
the  others  had  passed  among  the  trees ;  an'  says 
he : ' '  Sthrong  power  to  ward  off  ill  is  in  the  pure 
heart  o '  Light  o '  me  Eyes.  Yet  guard  well  this 
ring  o '  wrought  bronze  I  give  ye,  an '  in  the  hour 
when  peril  past  other  wardin'  comes  nigh  her, 
be  ready  an'  fling  it  from  ye  upward,  sayin': 
'Fall,  Evil,  on  the  Evil-Hearted!'  " 

Then  Mogh,  takin'  the  ring,  Hastened  afther 
Alona,  that  was  guidin'  the  blind  harper  down 
a  fern-grown  path,  where  the  night  mists  were 
still  clingin', — on  into  the  deep  o'  the  forest; 
an'  for  a  time  they  went  forward  silent,  as  three 
in  a  dhream. 

Yet  afther  a  while, — the  way  leadin'  down  to 


190  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

the  shore,  an'  the  little  small  waves  dancin'  an' 
leapin'  in  the  sun,  where  fresh  wind  had  scat- 
thered  the  mist, — Light  o'  me  Eyes  began 
singin',  an'  the  dull  weight  on  the  hearts  o'  them 
with  her  grew  less,  an'  their  steps  lighter.  An' 
says  she: 

"  'Tis  a  blithe  day  for  journeyin'!  We 
should  go  far.  An'  'tis  o'  King  Ciad  I'm  won- 
dherin'  on  the  way, — whether  he  loves  harpin' 
an'  singin'  well,  an'  whether  'tis  a  sthrong  arm 
he  has  for  the  whirlin'  sword-play.  An'  is  he 
one  gentle  to  those  weaker  nor  he?" 

"Ay,"  says  the  harper.  ''That  same  he 
strove  to  be,  though  'tis  but  young  he  was  when 
the  black  shadow  fell,  an'  had  had  but  little  time 
for  aught  else  but  leadin'  his  men  as  a  warrior. 
Yet  a  name  for  skill  in  harpin'  he  had  won,  an' 
'tis  meself  has  heard  him  singin'  at  a  high 
feast." 

"An'  was  there  no  maid  known  to  him  with 
heart  to  go  in  darkness  for  his  sake,  that  he 
must  send  searchin'  through  far  lands  for  one  to 
aid  him  an'  his  people?"  says  Mogh,  grim-like, 
trampin'  on  behind  with  bent  head. 

"Nay!"  cried  the  harper.    "One  th^re  was, 


LIGHT  0'  ME  EYES  191 

that  thought  much  o'  bein'  Queen  an'  wearin' 
cloth  o'  silk  an'  a  golden  torque  set  with  rare 
jewels ;  an'  fair  was  her  proud  face  to  Ciad.  But 
as  well  might  he  have  been  afther  lovin'  wather 
that  had  run  past  into  the  sea,  as  her  when  sor- 
row came  to  him!" 

An'  so  they  fared  on'  over  sand  an'  shingle, 
ever  away  from  the  sea-glen  o '  Fathach.  When 
the  sun  was  high  they  rested  for  a  while,  an'  ate 
what  Mogh  had  brought,  on  a  fallen  log  by  the 
shore;  but  they  slept,  that  night,  in  the  dark 
forest,  where  Mogh  made  a  bit  o '  fire  with  dhry 
sticks,  an'  built  a  shelter  for  Light  o'  me  Eyes 
out  o'  brakes  an'  brambles.  An'  'twas  Mogh 
that  brought  wather,  but  the  harper  would  let 
none  other  but  himself  be  lavin'  the  little  feet  o' 
Light  o'  me  Eyes,  as  she  leaned  weary  against 
a  tree;  an'  for  many  an'  hour  'twas  he  played 
soft  an'  low,  that  fair  dhreams  should  come  to 
her.  An'  Mogh  an'  the  harper  slept  only  by 
turn,  lest  any  danger  sfir  nigh  her. 

With  light  they  went  on  again, — Mogh 
knowin'  well  the  straight  way  south,  where  a 
swift,  wild  sthream  ran, — the  Eiver  o'  Gray 
Eapids,  they  called  it,  beyant  which  the  rule  o' 


192  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

King  Ciad  still  held  power.  An'  on  the  second 
night  they  made  a  restin'  place  for  Alona  on  a 
hill-slope,  where  was  a  patch  o'  fern  among  the 
heather.  An'  the  harper  wrapped  his  cloak 
about  her,  to  shield  her  from  the  chill  in  the  air ; 
an'  all  night  he  sat  wakeful.  But  all  this  time 
they  met  no  man. 

Now  toward  the  twilight  o '  the  third  day,  the 
air  brought  them  the  dull  rush  o'  flowin'  wather 
near.  An'  with  it  came  sthrange  noises  to 
them;  horns  o'  huntin'  where  no  hunters  were, 
an'  wailin'  like  the  shee  dancin'  in  the  wind. 
An'  white  as  moonlight,  an'  stern  grew  the  face 
o'  the  blind  harper;  but  Alona — carin'  for 
naught  but  findin'  the  safest  path  among  the 
rocks  an'  bushes  for  his  feet,  an'  o'  cheerin'  him 
an'  Mogh  as  they  went — had  a  laugh  blithe  as 
Spring  to  answer  all  evil  sounds. 

' '  'Tis  the  River  o '  Gray  Eapids  at  last, ' '  says 
Mogh,  when  they'd  reached  the  strand.  "An' 
in  the  mornin'  I'll  search  out  a  way  for 
crossin'." 

"An'  may  we  soon  come  on  King  Ciad,"  says 
Alona,  "for  well  I  know  the  heart  o'  Fathach 


LIGHT  O'  ME  EYES  193 

will  be  wearyin'  for  the  hour  when  Mogh  comes 
bringin'  me  homeward. " 

"Homeward!"  says  the  harper.  "Nay,  'tis 
Queen  o'  the  land  Ciad  will  have  ye  afther  bein', 
Alona !  Sure,  love  an  '  high  honour  will  be  for  ye, 
an '  riches  at  yer  feet  I  Have  ye  forgot  ? ' ' 

"  'Tis  not  for  that  I  came,"  says  Light  o7  me 
Eyes,  "but  for  helpin'  as  a  free  gift,  where  was 
sore  need.  An* — an'  it  may  be  some  time  ye '11 
come  again  to  the  Sea-glen,  Dalian,  an'  sing  o' 
sunshine  an'  fair  blossoms,  an'  o'  the  wan- 
dherin'  in  the  forest  these  days.  Sure,  that 
would  be  far  betther  nor  gold  an'  silken  robes." 

But  the  blind  harper  was  silent;  an'  when 
Alona  slept,  he  sat  by  Mogh,  hearkenin'  to  the 
river. 

At  last  says  he:  "No  longer  can  I  bear  the 
touch  o'  her  soft  hand  guidin'  me,  nor  the  ten- 
der, merry  voice,  like  a  lilt  o'  song  beside  me. 
Let  me  wandher  away  alone  to  what  may  come, 
an'  do  ye  take  her,  Mogh,  back  by  another  path 
to  the  sea-glen,  tellin'  her  I'm  gone  an'  ye've 
lost  the  way.  Ay,  rather  will  I  let  the  river 
dash  me  body  among  the  sharp  rocks  o'  the 
rapids  an'  beat  out  life,  before  havin'  her  take 


194  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

such  doom  on  her  through  me.  Never  a  King 
nor  a  kingdom  is  worth  it!" 

"  'Tis  too  late,"  says  Mogh.  "Willin'  would 
I  be,  but  not  for  any  word  o'  man  dare  I  cross 
the  biddin'  o'  Fathach,  that  has  knowledge  o' 
things  far  off,  an'  power  in  sthrange  ways.  An' 
more  nor  aught  I  could  say  would  it  now  take 
to  stay  Light  o'  me  Eyes  from  crossin'  the 
sthream  before  us  in  search  o '  King  Ciad. ' ' 

"Yet  if  she  find  him  not?"  says  the  harper. 
But  Mogh  laid  hand  on  his  arm. 

1  'Hearken!"  says  he.  "  'Tis  the  clash  of 
armour  an'  voices  that's  comin'  over  the  wather 
from  the  far  shore;  an'  flickerin'  o'  firelight 
among  the  bushes  beyant." 

"It  may  be  that  all  fordin'  places  are  held  by 
Balor,"  says  the  harper,  "lest  any  cross 
bringin'  aid  to  Ciad.  Or  it  may  be  sthrange 
warriors  come  to  make  havoc  in  the  land.  Far 
wiser,  Mogh,  that  ye  follow  me  counsel  an'  turn 
away  from  a  King  already  nigh  lost." 

"First  will  I  know,"  says  Mogh.  "Stay  ye 
here,  guardin'  Light  o'  me  Eyes  till  I  come 
again."  An'  with  that  he  plunged  straight  into 
the  wather  an'  swam  steady,  battlin'  the  cur- 


LIGHT  0'  ME  EYES  195 

rent,  across  the  river  to  where  were  the  fires 
he'd  seen;  an'  then  crept  up,  aisy  like,  through 
long  grass,  till  he  heard  low  speakin'  almost  be- 
side him.  An'  a  long  while  he  crouched  there, 
hearin'  all  said  by  two  warriors  that  sat  apart 
from  the  rest,  nigh  to  a  hut  o'  reeds.  An'  not 
till  they'd  made  an  end  an'  gone  away  to  the 
fires  did  he  stir  down  to  the  wather  again,  an' 
back  through  the  river,  that  swirled  him  about 
like  the  wind  a  leaf,  ere  he  could  reach  the  shore 
where  Dalian  was  waitin',  ever  hearkenin'  for 
what  might  come. 

"  'Tis  Balor  himself  is  yondher,  with  many  a 
stout  warrior,  an'  was  holdin'  counsel  away 
from  them  with  one  called  Eoghan,  never 
dhreamin'  that  any  was  hearin'  from  the  long 
grass,"  says  Mogh,  wringin'  the  wather  from 
what  he  wore. 

"Then  must  we  be  afther  findin'  other  place 
for  crossin',"  says  the  harper,  "for  evil  are  the 
eyes  o'  Balor  on  any  fair  young  girleen." 

"An'  'twas  speakin'  o'  one  long  wandhered 
away  they  were,"  says  Mogh,  "that  was  under 
sthrong  gels  to  tell  none  his  name  while  beyant 
the  Eiver  o'  Gray  Rapids." 


196  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

"Ay!"  says  the  harper,  still  as  wather  afther 
rain.  "An*  what  o'  him?" 

"That  his  was  a  hopeless  quest,  seein'  how 
two  days  more — an'  the  year  up  then — would 
bring  Balor  the  Kingship.  Yet  has  he  had,  in 
secret,  the  river  bank  held  by  certain  men  from 
the  wild  outlands,  that  know  no  masther  save 
Balor,  an*  would  bring  to  him  any  that  crossed, 
without  lettin '  the  warriors  know.  For  that  has 
Balor  made  lyin'  rumors  a  raison  for  bringin' 
the  army  hither.'* 

"Then  have  the  warriors  still  hope  for 
Ciad?"  asked  the  harper,  eager. 

"  'Tis  Balor  himself  says  the  very  army  at 
his  back  an*  round  him  would  rise  an'  cast  him 
out  in  a  breath,  if  Ciad  stood  among  them 
seein',"  answered  Mogh;  an'  then  would  he  say 
no  more,  but  lay  down  an'  fell  asleep,  wet  as  he 
was,  an'  never  stirred  for  many  an  hour,  till — 
loud  in  his  ear — came  a  wild  cry,  an'  he  sprang 
up  to  see  the  harper  strivin'  to  beat  back  armed 
men.  Even  as  he  woke,  two  gripped  himself,  an* 
at  the  shore  was  Light  o '  me  Eyes  held  in  a  boat 
o '  skins  by  yet  another.  Strugglin '  was  useless. 
'Twas  but  a  minute  afore  all  three  were  bein* 


LIGHT  0'  ME  EYES  197 

ferried  over  the  surgin'  wather  an*  haled  up  the 
bank,  scarce  fair  awake  as  they  were,  to  the  hut 
o'  reeds,  where,  at  the  door,  stood  a  sullen- 
faced  warrior.  An'  Mogh  knew  it  Balor  him- 
self, by  the  voice  he'd  heard  in  the  night, — an' 
quick  he  cast  the  rough  cloak  over  Dalian. 

For  a  moment  they  stood,  an'  then — "Have 
the  men  bound  an'  flung  far  away  in  the 
bushes  1"  says  Balor  to  the  man  Eoghan,  that 
was  by  him. 

"That  shall  ye  not!"  says  Light  o'  me  Eyes; 
an'  swift  she'd  the  bow  free  in  her  hands,  an' 
the  arrow  from  it  quiverin'  in  the  shoulder  o' 
him  that  would  ha'  laid  hold  on  the  harper.  An' 
Mogh,  dhrawin'  his  knife,  warned  off  all.  Then 
Balor,  with  a  harsh  laugh,  sprang  forward  an' 
wrenched  the  bow  from  the  soft  hands,  an' 
would  ha'  seized  Alona  herself, — but  at  her  cry 
the  sthrong  arm  o'  the  harper  went  round  her, 
an'  Balor  was  flung  back  in  the  doorway,  an' 
for  a  moment  could  get  no  breath.  An'  Mogh 
saw  many  a  stout  warrior  hurryin'  toward  them 
from  the  campin'  place  beyant. 

"He  is  blind!    Are  ye  men,  to  harm  a  blind 


198  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

singer?"  says  Alona,  never  fearin'  aught  for 
herself. 

"An'  whither  fare  ye,  lady,  with  a  wild  kerne 
an*  a  blind  harper!"  says  the  man  Eoghan, 
sneerin*. 

"To  the  King!"  says  she,  "to  save  him  an' 
the  land  from  evil ! ' ' 

"The  King?"  says  Balor,  his  face  afire  at  her 
beauty  an'  courage, — "  'Tis  I,  Balor,  shall  be 
King,  the  morrow,  an'  ye  Queen!  Ciad  lies 
dead  in  the  forest!" 

1 1  Dead ! ' '  cried  the  harper. 

"Ay!"  says  Balor,  "an'  'tis  ye  shall  follow 
him  this  hour,  for  the  blow  ye  gave !" 

But  before  the  dagger  was  from  his  sheath, 
Alona  turned  sudden  to  the  harper,  with  brave 
light  o'  lovin'  in  her  face;  an' — "Take  sight, 
then,  pulse  o'  me  heart!"  says  she,  layin'  her 
lips  on  his  eyes.  "Betther  ye  nor  me  in  this 
hour!" 

But  no  shadow  fell  on  her  sweet  eyes!  In 
that  very  breath,  Mogh,  that  had  been  watchin ' 
keen,  hurled  from  him  the  bronze  ring  o' 
Fathach,  cryin'— "Fall,  Evil,  on  the  Evil- 
Hearted!" 


LIGHT  O'  ME  EYES  199 

An'  as  out  o'  the  sky,  curse  an*  ring  sthruck 
the  dark  face  o'  Balor,  that  staggered,  with 
sudden  hands  to  his  brow, — an'  dropped  heavy 
to  the  ground. 

The  harper  strode  an'  leaned  over  Balor,  in 
sight  o'  the  warriors  nigh  them;  an'  says  he: 

4 'Was  yon  truth  or  a  lie  ye  spake  o'  Ciad?" 

"  'Tis  dead  he  is!"  says  Balor, — strikin'  at 
air  with  his  dagger,  fierce  an'  wild. 

"Nay!"  cried  the  harper, — sudden  flingin' 
the  rough  cloak  from  him,  an'  lettin'  his  shout 
ring  out  glad  as  he  turned.  "Nay,  Light  o'  me 
Eyes !  For  I  am  Ciad,  an '  I  see ! " 

But  slow  an'  alone,  as  night  fell, — Mogh  the 
swineherd,  that  was  cross  an'  old,  fared  on  his 
way  back  to  the  sea-glen  o'  Fathach. 


XIV 

CONN  THE  BOASTEB 

["A  story?  'Tis  always  a  story  ye 're  wantin', 
Where's  me  weedin'  o'  the  garden  to  come 
in  at  all,  at  all?  Sure,  'tis  no  peace  ye 're 
af  ther  givin '  me !  'Tis  worse  nor  the  Little 
People  treated  Conn  the  fat  cook.  Be  whist, 
now,  if  yees  want  to  hear  about  it"] 

'TWAS  King  Dermot  was  a  mighty  ruler, — but 
growin'  old  as  time  went  by,  he  sent  far  an' 
wide  for  a  champion  to  aid  him  fightin'  the 
Danes.  Many  a  man  came  to  try  his  chances, — 
only  to  be  tumbled  over  by  some  o '  those  in  the 
court.  An'  King  Dermot  wanted  one  sthronger 
nor  any  o'  them;  so  when  at  last  Prince  Aongas, 
that  had  been  livin'  poor  in  exile,  beat  down  the 
last  man  that  stood  against  him;  King  Dermot 
gave  him  his  daughter,  Princess  Enya,  an'  made 
200 


CONN  THE  BOASTER  201 

him  the  greatest  man  in  the  kingdom,  all  but  ex- 
peptin'  himself. 

As  I  said  before,  King  Dermot  was  gettin'  on 
to  be  old,  so  afther  Prince  Aongas  was  wed  to 
JCnya  o'  the  Fair  Hands,  'twas  for  him  to  rule 
in  place  o'  Dermot.  An'  sure,  the  king  found  it 
mighty  aisy  an'  pleasant  to  lie  abed  o'  mornin's 
an'  take  his  comfort,  instead  o*  risin'  up  to  hear 
all  the  troubles  that  the  people  brought  to  be 
settled.  An'  for  that  same,  he  moved  his 
sleepin'  place  to  a  high  tower  on  the  back  wall 
o'  the  castle,  that  looked  down  into  a  little  small 
courtyard,  where  'twas  few  people  came. 

Now,  early  one  mornin'  he  was  roused  before 
his  hour  by  a  great  clatter  o'  tongues  below. 
An'  bein'  cross  as  the  crabs  at  losin'  his  mornin' 
nap,  he  rose  up  an'  poked  his  grey  head  out  o' 
the  window.  'Twas  two  men  was  makin'  all  the 
to-do,  an'  arguyin'  like  mad.  One  was  a  big 
stout  man,  with  a  white  cloth  tied  about  him, 
that  puffed  an'  breathed  hard  while  he  spoke; 
an'  that  was  Conn,  the  chief  cook.  While  the 
other,  that  did  only  half  as  much  o'  the  talkin', 
was  Art,  the  groom.  A  dark,  wiry  lad  was  that 
same,  an'  betther  nor  many  at  the  leapin'. 


202  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

An'  says  Conn:  "What  for  a  man  is  Aongas, 
then?  Sure,  that  big  fellow,  Conal  o '  the  Shield, 
could  ha'  made  three  o'  him,  an'  'twas  no  work 
at  all  that  I  beat  him  till  he  ran  out  o '  the  back 
door  o'  the  castle.  An'  had  I  been  dressed  in 
fine  cloth,  an*  not  in  this  that  I've  on,  'tis  I 
should  ha '  had  the  Princess. ' ' 

'Twas  Art  was  goin'  to  answer  him  to  the 
same  tune,  an'  tell  how  himself  had  thripped  up 
Breogan  at  the  wrestlin',  though  that  was  a  man 
that  had  thrashed  Conn  in  his  time, — but  just 
then  King  Dermot  gave  a  bit  of  a  sneeze,  an' 
Art,  bein'  a  quick-witted  lad,  changed  his  man- 
ner, an'  drew  on  Conn  to  talk  louder  an'  louder, 
havin'  a  spite  against  him  for  more  raisons  nor 
one. 

"Ay,"  said  Conn,  "an'  if  the  Danes  came, 
'tis  meself  would  dhrive  them  scamperin' 
sooner  nor  a  boy  like  Aongas,  that  never  was 
half  fed  till  he  came  to  this  place." 

At  that,  King  Dermot,  thinkin'  he'd  heard  a 
plenty,  pulled  in  his  head  an'  went  down  to  the 
great  hall.  There  sat  Aongas  on  the  high  seat, 
an'  many  people  o'  the  court  standin'  by  him. 
When  he  saw  King  Dermot,  he  rose  up  to  give 


CONN  THE  BOASTER  203 

him  place,  but  Dermot  sat  down  beside  him  an* 
waited  till  all  was  quiet.  Then  he  beckoned  to 
Colla,  the  waitin'  boy,  that  knelt  at  his  feet. 

"Go,  bring  Conn,  the  cook,  from  where  he 
stands  talkin'  loud  in  the  little  small  courtyard, 
an'  be  swift/' 

Sure,  every  last  one  was  wondherin'  what 
King  Dermot  was  wantin'  with  Conn,  an' 
waited  to  find  out.  So  back  runs  Colla,  an' 
Conn  followin'  with  his  big  shouldhers  swingin' 
from  side  to  side  as  he  walked,  an'  his  head 
settin'  back  on  his  chin.  When  he  saw  the  look 
in  the  eyes  o'  King  Dermot  he  fell  down  on  his 
knees  for  fear  o'  what  might  be  comin'.  An' 
says  the  king : 

"  'Tis  good  ye  are  at  the  roastin'  o'  meat, 
Conn.  An'  'tis  fond  o'  good  eatin'  ye  are.  Now, 
'tis  in  my  mind  to  give  ye  a  lesson  that  ye 're 
sore  needin'."  With  that  he  told  what  he'd 
been  hearin'. 

An'  first  one  spoke,  an*  then  another, — tellin' 
what  should  befall  him  to  teach  him  betther  use 
o'  his  tongue.  But  far  from  King  Dermot 's 
mind  was  thought  o'  spoilin'  the  best  cook  he 


204  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

had  by  dhroppin'  him  in  the  river,  or  settin'  the 
dogs  to  chase  him  o'er  the  hills. 

At  last  says  Aongas,  laughin',  "Dhrive  a 
great  stake  on  the  bank  o'  the  river,  close  by  the 
ford,  an'  chain  him  tight  to  it.  An'  there  let  him 
stay  till  one  passes  that  is  a  greater  boaster  nor 
he.  An '  let  his  food  be  crusts  from  the  table  an  * 
wather  from  the  river.'* 

Conn  said  naught, — thinkin'  that  he'd  come 
off  aisy  afther  all  he'd  said,  an'  scornin'  such 
light  punishment.  "Sure,"  thought  he,  "  'Twill 
be  no  time  at  all  afore  I'm  back  in  me  own 
kitchen.  'Tis  a  fine  time  I'll  be  havin',  down 
there  by  the  river,  watchin'  the  world  go  by,  an' 
havin'  no  work  to  be  worryin'  me." 

But  he  was  reckonin '  without  Art,  the  groom. 
As  soon  as  they'd  left  Conn  by  the  ford,  Art 
went  off,  when  none  was  lookin',  an*  across 
counthry  to  his  mother ;  an'  'twas  on  the  road  to 
the  castle  she  lived.  An'  from  her  he  took 
promise  that  no  man  should  pass  without  bein* 
warned  o'  the  plight  o'  Conn,  an'  not  to  boast  o' 
nothin'  whatever. 

So  when  the  first  thraveller,  that  was  an  old 
man  with  earthen  pots  to  sell,  came  hobblin' 


CONN  THE  BOASTER  205 

along  the  road  to  the  ford,  there  sat  Conn, 
makin'  out  that  he  was  enjoyin'  the  fine 
weather,  an'  payin'  no  manner  of  attention  to 
the  great  stake. 

"Good  day,"  says  he.  An'  "good  day  to  ye," 
says  the  potter. 

"Ye  look  like  a  man  that  has  done  things 
worth  spakin'  of,"  says  Conn.  "Sit  down  an' 
Chat  a  bit." 

"Not  I,"  says  the  other.  "  'Tis  hut  a  poor 
potter  that  I  am,  an'  have  done  no  deeds  at  all 
barrin'  the  makin'  o'  pots  an'  pipkins, — an'  that 
mortal  poorly."  With  that,  bein'  warned,  an' 
mindin'  how  once  Conn  had  dhriven  him  from 
the  kitchen  door  without  bite  nor  sup,  he  tucked 
up  his  ragged  gown  an'  waded  across  the  ford, 
— Conn  watchin'  him  discomfortably. 

Next  to  come  was  Manus  the  Singer,  an*  Conn 
had  great  hopes  of  him,  for  that  he  was  terrible 
proud  o'  his  verses.  So  he  smiled  round  undher 
his  ears,  an'  made  his  voice  fat  an'  soft. 

"  'Tis  a  long  weary  time  ye've  been  away 
from  us,  Manus,"  says  he.  "An'  'tis  missin' 
y er  elegant  singin '  we  Ve  been.  Sure  now,  in  all 


206  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

yer  thravels  ye've  never  met  yer  like  at  the 
verse  makmV 

"Nay,"  says  Manns,  winkin'  a  bit  to  himself, 
bnt  pretendin'  'twas  the  snn  makin'  him  blink, 
— ' '  over  an'  by  where  the  river  at  our  feet  pours 
its  wathers  into  the  ragin'  Sea  o'  Moyle,  I  found 
a  man  singin'  in  the  hall  o'  King  Ivar  the  Dane, 
by  whom  'tis  I  am  but  a  bungler." 

"  'Tis  yer  modesty,"  says  Conn.  "Sure,  the 
very  words  ye  use  to  tell  of  it  are  ones  that 
wouldn't  come  in  the  mind  o'  common  men." 

Now  that  tickled  Manus,  for  all  he'd  been 
warned  by  Art's  old  mother.  Perhaps  he  might 
ha'  sat  down  then,  an'  told  what  a  fine  singer  he 
was,  but  just  then  his  eye  fell  on  the  chain  that 
held  Conn. 

"What  for  is  that  round  ye?"  says  he. 

"To  kape  me  from  fallin'  in  the  river,"  says 
Conn.  ' '  'Tis  fair  worn  out  I  am  with  the  great 
heat  o'  the  fire ;  so  King  Dermot  sent  me  here  to 
recover  meself,  an'  the  chain  for  fear  I'd  be 
feelin'  weak." 

"  'Tis  meself  is  feelin'  weak,  an'  hungry  by 
that,"  says  Manus.  "I'll  be  goin'  up  to  the 


CONN  THE  BOASTER  207 

castle  an'  seein'  what  is  roastin'  for  dinner. " 
An '  off  lie  strode  through  the  ford. 

An'  so  it  went  till  night  came,  an*  Colla 
brought  Conn  a  few  hard  crusts  for  his  eatin'. 
An'  'twas  glad  enough  poor  Conn  was  to  get 
any  food  to  set  his  teeth  in,  for  he  was  nigh 
famished,  never  havin'  gone  empty  so  long. 

'Twas  ill  he  slept  that  night,  but  for  hopin' 
that  some  great  boaster  might  come  passin',  an' 
not  be  able  to  kape  from  tellin '  o '  his  fine  doin  's. 
But  all  in  vain.  Four  an'  five  days  went,  an'  no 
one  would  be  any  help  in  the  way  he  wanted. 

Now  Conn  slept  so  light, — the  chain  makin' 
him  onaisy, — that  a  breath  of  a  word  could 
rouse  him.  When  the  seventh  night  darkened 
he  was  dozin'  where  he  lay,  an'  by  an'  by  some- 
thin'  pricked  the  sole  o'  his  foot.  He  rooched 
round,  onaisy  like,  an'  turned  over.  Then  down 
by  his  side  he  heard  small  voices  talkin'.  An' 
says  one: 

"Behold  me  amazin'  strength.  Though  I  am 
not  the  height  o'  this  big  man's  knee,  when  I 
put  me  shouldher  to  his  foot,  I  heaved  him  over 
entirely!" 

"Pooh,"  says  the  other  voice.    "  'Tis  naught 


208  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

to  me  own  doin'.  Tester  morn  I  stood  behind  a 
bush  across  the  river  from  the  castle  gate  an* 
dhrew  a  long  breath;  an'  so  powerful  was  it  that 
the  gate  swung  outward,  an'  half  a  dozen  o'  the 
King's  men  were  dragged  through  it.  'Twas 
no  use  their  tryin'  to  resist  at  all!" 

* '  Aha ! ' '  thought  Conn.  ' '  Here 's  me  chance, 
forbye  I  can  catch  what  I'm  not  seein*.  'Tie 
either  one  o '  yees  will  serve  me  turn  like  butther 
on  a  cake!" 

So  he  made  a  mighty  sweep  o'  his  arm,  an'  his 
hand  came  against  the  long  hair  o'  something 
an'  he  held  on  with  all  his  power. 

Ay,  but  there  was  a  squealin'  an'  a  squirlin* 
an'  a  big  outcry  all  to  once.  When  the  little  man 
found  himself  caught  he  stamped  hard  with  his 
foot,  an'  Conn  felt  the  ground  sinkin'  undher 
him;  an*  before  he  knew  it  he  was  fallen  flat  on 
his  face  in  a  wide  lighted  hall,  with  hundreds  o ' 
the  Little  People  crowdin'  round  to  see  him, — 
but  him  still  grippin'  the  hair  an'  the  little  red 
cap  o '  their  fellow,  that  cried  out  terrible. 

TEen  one  that  was  bigger  nor  most  came  up  to 
Conn.  "By  what  right  do  ye  tumble  into  our 
hall,  man  o'  much  flesh!" 


CONN  THE  BOASTER  209 

"By  no  rights  but  that  I  was  brought,  savin* 
yer  presence,"  says  Conn. 

"Loose  the  hair  o'  me  son,  an'  give  him  his 
cap,"  ordhered  the  chief. 

"Ay,  when  he  promises  to  stand  by  me  at 
break  o'  morn,  an'  to  say  to  King  Dermot  what 
he  said  in  me  hearin'  o'  his  great  strength." 

"That  I'll  not!"  cried  the  son.  "  'Twas  but 
a  bit  o'  boastin',  an'  no  great  matther  at  that." 

"I  thought  that  same,"  says  Conn,  "an'  for 
that  I've  held  on.  'Tis  meself  has  been  in  a  bad 
way  through  over  much  boastin'.  An'  King 
Dermot  '11  kape  me  chained  to  this  stake  till  one 
comes  by  that's  a  greater  boaster  nor  meself. 
Promise  by  all  ye  hold  holy  that  ye '11  help  me 
back  to  freedom,  an'  I'll  let  go,  an'  give  back  the 
cap." 

"Promise,  me  son,"  says  the  chief;  an'  afther 
that  Conn  loosed  his  hold. 

"But  how '11  I  get  back  to  the  top  o'  the 
ground?"  says  Conn. 

"  'Tis  aisy,"  says  the  chief  o'  the  Little 
People.  "First  ye  must  cook  our  supper,  an' 
we'll  befriend  ye  afther." 

Conn,  thinkin'  that  an  aisy  matther,  followed 


210  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

the  Little  People  to  their  kitchen.  An'  'tis  the 
truth  I'm  tellin'  yees  when  I  say  that  'twas  the 
hardest  task  he'd  ever  undertaken.  Ye  see, 
'twas  too  low  for  him  to  stand  upright,  an*  while 
the  fire  was  half  a  dacent  size,  the  dishes  for 
cookin'  were  so  small  that  he  came  nigh  on 
crushin'  them  between  his  two  big  hands.  An' 
the  knives  an*  spoons  were  scarce  to  be  seen. 

The  whole  night  through  they  kept  him  toilin' 
there  for  them,  an'  at  last  when  he'd  cooked  all 
they  had,  he  dhropped  down  clean  exhausted  an' 
heard  himself  begin  to  snore.  By  an'  by  the 
noise  grew  louder.  He  opened  his  eyes  sudden 
like,  an'  there  he  was,  lyin*  in  a  mighty  cramped 
way, — still  tied  to  the  stake  at  the  ford;  an' 
down  the  hill  was  comin'  Colla  with  his  pan  o' 
crusts. 

Well,  now,  Conn  was  wondherin'  if  the  Little 
People  was  forgettin'  their  promise,  or  if  he'd 
dhreamed  it  all :  but  just  as  Colla  came  near,  a 
small  crooked  man  hobbled  up  the  road  an' 
spoke  to  him.  An*  before  he'd  said  many 
words,  'twas  Colla  was  flyin'  up  to  the  gate  an' 
callin'  all  the  men  to  come  an'  let  Conn  loose, 


CONN  THE  BOASTER  211 

for  beyant  there  was  one  that  more  nor  matched 
him  a  hundred  times  an'  more  to  boot. 

So  down  came  the  court, — Aongas  an'  the 
King  at  their  head, — to  listen  to  the  tales  o '  the 
crooked  man,  not  knowin'  that  he  was  the  chief's 
son  o'  the  Little  People.  An'  not  only  did  he 
tell  his  own  boastin'  over,  but  that  o'  his  com- 
panion for  his  own  doin',  so  that  such  tales  were 
never  heard. 

An'  the  end  o'  that  all  was  the  loosin'  o'  fat 
Conn,  that  was  less  fat  nor  before,  by  that  same 
token;  an'  back  he  went  to  his  kitchen,  needin' 
no  more  warnin'  to  kape  his  tongue  at  home. 
An'  'tis  I  am  thinkin'  the  little  man  was  none 
too  eager  to  be  afther  boastin '  in  the  dark  again, 
without  first  makin'  sure  that  no  fat  cook  was 
listenin*. 


XV 

THE  KING  O'  THE  THREE  WINDS 

["So  yees  liked  hearin'  o'  Leu?  Sure  'twas  a 
mighty  smith  he  was,  up  under  the  rainbow, 
an'  masther  o'  craft  beyant  all  mortal  men; 
an'  not  mindin'  a  bit  o'  jestin',  either,  when 
time  served.  I  mind  hearin'  once — whist, 
now,  an'  I'll  tell  yees  that  one  tale  more, 
about  him,  an'  that'll  be  the  last."] 

THERE  was  one  day  when  mighty  battlin'  was 
goin'  on,  far  to  the  west.  An'  Len,  wearyin'  o' 
the  sun-forge,  an'  the  bright  curvin'  o'  the  rain- 
bow, leaned  on  the  north  wind  to  look  down  at 
the  heroes  strivin'  for  masthery  on  the  sea- 
coast,  with  the  waves  beatin'  in  high  on  the 
rocks.  An'  more  nor  one  carried  spear  or  shield 
o'  Len's  forgin',  an'  the  sun  shmin'  on  the 
swing  o'  swords  was  like  sparks  flyin'  from  his 
212 


THE  KING  0'  THE  THREE  WINDS    213 

furnace.  An'  what  had  come  to  pass  aforetime 
happened  again;  for  sure,  a  second  time  his 
hammer  slipped  from  his  graspin'  an*  fell 
through  the  clouds. 

But  'tis  truth  I'm  tellin'  yees  that  'twas  many 
an  hour  before  he  knew  that  same.  Little 
meanin'  had  time  an'  the  passin'  o'  time  to  Len. 
The  wild  fight  was  still  ragin'  on,  an'  naught 
cared  he  for  work  other  than  seem'  it.  So  not 
till  truce  was  cried  was  he  afther  lookin'  round 
for  his  own;  an'  then  no  matther  where  he 
looked  he  could  see  no  trace  o '  that  same  far  off 
nor  close  by  him.  An'  dark  an'  cloud  had  blown 
across  the  sea,  coverin'  day  with  night.  So  back 
went  Len  to  his  forge,  an'  sat  down  for  thinkin' 
— seein'  as  how  he  couldn't  be  workin' — an'  the 
north  wind  rumbled  in  his  chimney. 

Many  a  day  passed  in  that  thinkin',  an'  all 
that  time  the  north  wind  blew  cowld  across  the 
land  from  the  Ould  Sea,  so  that  men  were  feared 
o'  winter  comin'  before  harvestin'.  At  last  Len 
roused  to  be  doin',  an'  with  a  mighty  laugh  that 
shook  the  tops  o'  the  cloud  mountains,  he  strode 
off  down  the  bridge  o'  fog  shadows  to  seek  for 
his  hammer;  with  the  north  wind  at  his  heel, 


214  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

guiet,  an*  scarce  darin'  to  scatther  the  wet  mists 
out  o*  the  path. 

Now  'twas  comin'  to  be  the  end  o'  harvestin' 
on  the  lands  o'  Mahon,  chieftain  o'  the  men  o' 
Eosnaree.  An'  in  the  hall  o'  the  wide  earthen 
dun  sat  Mahon  an'  the  older  men,  tellin'  tales  o' 
heroes,  with  tall  flagons  o'  foamin'  mead  before 
them;  but  on  the  grass  by  the  little  river  the 
young  men  an'  boys  were  playin'  at  ball,  an* 
castin'  spears  at  a  mark;  an'  headin'  them  all 
was  Rodan,  sister's  son  to  Mahon,  dressed  fine 
in  rich  cloth  o'  green  laced  with  gold.  An' 
never  a  one  o9  them  could  match  him  at  the 
games. 

Now  while  they  were  runnin'  back  an'  along 
the  river  bank,  one  lad  that  happened  to  be 
afther  lookin'  over  his  shouldher  began  laughin' 
an'  laughin'.  An'  says  Eodan,  laughin'  too — 

"What  for  are  ye  makin'  me  spoil  me  aim?" 

"  'Tis  for  the  ould  beggar  man,"  says  the 
lad.  "See  him  comin',  now,  an'  draggin'  an 
empty  chain  as  if  'twas  his  dog  he  was  leadin'. 
An'  sure,  'tis  speakin'  to  it  he  is,  tellin'  it  to  be 
quiet. ' ' 

With  that,  all  save  Rodan  started  laughin '  at 


THE  KING  0'  THE  THREE  WINDS    215 

the  ould,  crooked  beggar  man  that  was  comin' 
down  by  the  wather  side,  all  in  a  ragged  cloak, 
carryin'  a  bit  of  a  rusty  chain,  an'  in  his  belt 
more  pieces  o'  that  same. 

As  he  came  nigher,  a  cowld  north  wind  flut- 
therin'  the  tatthered  cloak  he  wore,  an'  flingin' 
it  back  that  any  might  see  the  bare  knotted  arms 
an'  sthrong  hands  of  him,  he  turned  aside  an' 
threw  the  chain  round  a  bit  of  a  saplin'  that 
grew  near,  an'  at  once  the  wind  fell.  Then  he 
looked  round  at  the  lads. 

"Is  it  for  sake  o'  me  rags  that  ye 're  jeerin' 
at  an  ould  man?"  says  he. 

"Nay,"  says  Eodan,  lookin'  wrath  at  his  fel- 
lows. "  'Tis  at  yer  empty  chain  they  were 
laughin',  as  boys  will.  None  o'  the  house  o' 
Mahon  will  ye  find  showin'  scorn  to  age  or  to 
one  in  need.  An'  a  night's  lodgin'  an'  a  piece 
o'  silver  Mahon  gives  to  any  that  come,  an'  none 
may  question  whither  he  goes  afther." 

"A  rare  jewel  have  I  lost,"  says  the  ould  bent 
beggar,  lookin'  sharp  at  Eodan  under  his 
shaggy  brows,  "an'  near  anf  far  have  I  been 
seekin'  it." 

"Then  come  with  me  to  Mahon  an'  the  wiser 


216  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

men,  an'  it  may  be  they'll  have  heard  somewhat 
of  it,  an'  be  afther  guidin'  ye  to  find  that  same," 
says  Eodan,  gentle  like;  an'  takin'  the  arm  o' 
the  sthranger,  to  be  helpin'  him  a  bit,  he  led  him 
in  at  the  door. 

Now  Mahon,  lookin'  up,  saw  the  two  comin'; 
an'  risin'  to  meet  one  older  an'  seemin'  feebler 
nor  himself,  he  caught  a  glint  o'  the  deep  eyes 
under  the  heavy  brows,  an'  knew  well  from 
years  past  who  was  in  his  hall  as  guest.  But 
never  a  word  he  spoke  showin'  it,  for  betther  he 
thought  it  to  wait  on  the  will  o '  one  mightier  nor 
him. 

"  'Tis  kindly  welcome  ye  are,"  says  he, 
dhrawin'  forward  the  bench  for  him  to  be 
seated.  An'  Bodan  brought  food  an'  spread  it 
on  the  board  before  the  wayfarin'  man,  an'  his 
own  golden  cup  filled  brimmin'  with  wine. 

"  'Tis  a  sthranger,  weary  with  farin'  far  to 
seek  a  lost  jewel,"  spoke  Eodan,  "an'  needin' 
rest  an'  aidin'." 

"An'  what  for  a  threasure  was  that  same?" 
asked  one  o'  Mahon 's  men,  that  sat  nigh. 
"Maybe  one  among  us  may  have  heard  talk  of 
it,  an'  can  give  ye  word  where  to  find  it." 


THE  KING  0'  THE  THREE  WINDS    217 

For  a  time  the  ould  man  made  no  answer ;  but 
afther  eatin'  a  while  (an*  'twas  the  amazin' 
hunger  he  seemed  to  be  havin'),  he  leaned  his 
arm  on  the  rough  oaken  table  an'  looked  at 
Mahon,  that  had  been  silent,  thinkin'  o'  many 
wonderful  things. 

"What  for  a  wind  had  ye  yestermorn?"  says 
he. 

Then  Mahon,  showin'  respect  as  to  a  famed 
warrior,  answered — 

"For  three  hours  afther  sunrise  it  blew  from 
the  east.  Then  for  three  more  from  the  west. 
Then  came  a  sthrong  gale  from  the  south.  An' 
like  that  same  has  it  been  for  ten  days  an'  ten 
more." 

"An'  has  no  wind  come  from  the  north?" 
asked  the  ould  man. 

* '  Not  in  all  that  time, ' '  says  Mahon.  *  *  Before 
those  days  was  naught  but  stormin'  from  the 
north  for  long  weeks." 

Then  Eodan  spoke  eagerly.  "Ay,  but  in  this 
very  hour  came  wind  from  the  north,  blowin' 
our  spears  past  their  mark. "  An'  as  the  words 
came  from  him,  a  deep  growlin'  was  heard  with- 
out the  dun,  an'  a  sweep  o'  wind  that  stirred  the 


218  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

thatch  above  their  heads.  Eodan  looked  up 
wondherin',  but  the  ould  man  chuckled. 

"  'Tis  me  dog,  restless  from  bein'  tied  in  one 
place/'  says  he;  an'  then  low,  that  none  but 
Mahon  heard;  "me  dog,  the  north  wind.  'Tis 
for  his  fellows  I  seek,  servants  o'  the  hammer 
that  slipped  from  me  grasp  while  I  leaned 
watchin'  the  war  o'  the  western  heroes.  An'  he 
would  have  gone  too  had  I  not  been  houldin' 
him." 

* '  Ay  !  "  says  Mahon.  ' '  Then  hear  what  word 
o'  them  I  have  for  ye,  good  masther  o'  wisdom 
an'  lord  o'  power,  rememberin'  well  yer  aid 
given  free  in  me  hour  o'  need  in  a  year  long 
past.  Tester  morn  rode  up  the  river  bank  a 
man  in  rich  armour,  an'  afther  him  many  a 
sthrong  fightin'  man.  An'  last  o'  them,  on  a 
lame  pony,  a  sour-faced  dwarf.  An'  when  Eodan 
here  questioned  o'  them  who  they  were,  none 
would  give  civil  word  save  the  dwarf,  that  cried 
out :  *  'Tis  me  lord  the  King  o'  the  Three  Winds, 
returnin'  from  victory.  An'  'tis  an  ill  fate 
comes  to  any  that  hindher  him.'  An'  no  more 
word  would  he  speak,  but  rode  away  past  on  his 


THE  KING  0'  THE  THREE  WINDS    219 

limpin'  nag.  Sure,  never  was  such  a  king  known 
of  any  in  these  parts. ' ' 

The  ould  beggar  nodded,  as  bein '  well  pleased, 
an '  rose.  An  '  so  tall  was  he  that  he  'd  need  to  be 
stoopin'  to  pass  the  lintel  o'  the  door. 

"What  lad  is  this  same  that  led  me  to  ye, 
Mahon  o'  Rosnaree?"  says  he,  his  voice  as  deep 
as  a  wave  in  the  heart  o '  the  Ould  Sea. 

"Rodan,  sister 's  son  to  me,"  says  Mahon, 
"an'  the  very  core  o'  me  heart,  seein'  that  no 
sons  o'  me  own  house  have  I,  to  give  aidin'  in 
battle  when  me  right  arm  fails  me  with  age. ' ' 

"An'  has  he  won  honour  to  his  name?"  says 
the  ould  man. 

"Not  yet,"  answered  Mahon,  lookin'  lovin  at 
the  lad,  an'  seein'  the  hot  blood  risin'  in  his 
cheeks  from  hearin'  the  two  discussin'  him. 
"Time  an'  plenty  for  that,"  says  Mahon. 

"Then  give  him  leave  to  go  with  me  on  me 
questin',"  says  the  ould  man.  "Bare  fame  shall 
he  win,  an'  a  warrior  shall  he  be,  fit  to  match 
with  heroes." 

An'  while  Rodan  sprang  first  to  his  feet  in 
wrath  at  any  thinkin'  him  one  to  go  trudgin'  in 


220  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

the  dust  by  a  ragged  beggar  man,  yet  he'd  no 
more  nor  met  the  eyes  o'  the  sthranger  than  all 
anger  left  him,  an*  'twas  to  the  end  o'  the  world 
he'd  have  gone  willin'  with  that  same. 

"Ay,"  says  Mahon.  "  "Tis  meself  is  well  con- 
tent to  have  him  serve  ye.  This  many  a  day  has 
he  been  wearyin'  to  go  out  seekin'  fortune." 

With  never  another  word  the  sthranger  bent 
an'  passed  the  door,  an'  Eodan  afther  him, 
never  heedin'  the  wondher  o'  the  lads  round 
about.  An'  mazed  were  all  when  they  saw  the 
ould  man  givin'  him  the  chains  from  his  belt  to 
carry,  himself  unwindin'  the  one  from  the 
saplin'. 

"Which  road  went  the  King  o'  the  Three 
Winds?"  says  the  beggar. 

"Toward  the  Ford  of  Echoes,  I  heard  one  cry 
out,"  says  Eodan. 

So  on  by  day  an'  night,  never  restin'  for  aught 
but  the  askin'  some  passer-by  as  to  the  man 
they  were  huntin',  they  went  through  the  wood 
an'  over  hill  an'  rock,  till  they  reached  the  Ford 
of  Echoes.  An'  there,  on  the  hillside  before 
them,  rose  a  great  high  castle,  with  grey  towers 
an'  wide  walls.  An'  waverin'  it  seemed,  onoe 


THE  KING  O'  THE  THREE  WINDS    221 

an'  again,  like  a  thing  in  a  dhream.  Sure,  the 
ould  man  sat  down  laughin'. 

"  'Tis  his  gran'  dwellin'  we've  been  afther 
discoverin ',  Eodan, ' '  says  he.  ' '  Will  ye  batther 
it  down  with  yer  hands,  or  shall  I  set  me  dog  to 
the  work?" 

''An'  afther  'tis  done  will  yer  treasure  lie 
open  to  ye?"  says  the  lad. 

11  That's  for  thinkin'  about,"  says  the  other, 
well  pleased.  "  'Tis  a  wise  word  ye  spoke,  not 
knowin '.  Scant  use  to  break  down  his  walls  be- 
fore fin  din'  where  he's  me  jewel  hid.  Whist, 
now,  for  one's  comin'  down  the  hillside." 

While  they  stood  watchin',  a  dead  branch 
cracked,  an '  to  the  ford,  to  dhraw  wather,  came 
a  straight,  slender  girleen,  an'  on  her  shouldher 
was  an  earthen  jar.  When  she  saw  the  two  be- 
yant  the  runnin '  sthream  she  shook  her  head. 

"  'Tis  an  ill  land  this  for  any  poor  men  farin' 
alone.  Betther  that  ye  hasten  on,  stayin'  for 
naught,  till  ye  pass  the  power  o'  Curigh  Mor." 

"An'  who  may  be  Curigh  Mor,  that  men  jour- 
neyin'  in  peace  should  fear  him?"  asked  Kodan, 
seem'  how  fair  was  the  curlin'  black  hair  o'  the 
maid,  an'  the  little  white  feet  in  the  grass. 


222  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

"King  o'  the  Three  Winds  is  he,  an'  has  been 
for  a  score  o'  days  an'  more,"  says  she.  "A 
poor  kerne  was  he  born,  an '  thrall  in  me  father 's 
house.  One  day  'twas  himself  came  in  with 
somethin'  shinin'  under  his  cloak;  an'  when  me 
father  asked  what  was  that  same,  he  spoke 
scorn  o'  his  masthery,  an'  sthruck  him  down. 
An'  from  that  hour  power  over  three  winds  has 
he  gained — east  an'  west  an'  south,  to  work  his 
will.  An*  for  that  I  would  say  naught  to  him, 
the  walls  o'  me  father's  dwellin'  lie  scatthered 
an'  blown  far  down  the  mountain  side;  an' 
meself  must  dhraw  the  wather  an'  be  servin' 
maid  to  them  that  serve  him ;  an'  all  for  scornin' 
him.  Three  times  have  I  fled  far  down  the  river 
bank,  an'  each  time  has  one  o'  the  winds  caught 
me  an'  blown  me  back  to  his  castle  gate.  An' 
'tis  small  hope  o'  help  from  any  livin'  man  I 
have,  for  none  can  withstand  the  winds  out  o' 
the  sky," 

"An'  whose  child  may  ye  be,  that  has  been  so 
mistreated  ? ' '  says  the  ould  man.  * '  Maybe  we  '11 
be  afther  findin'  some  way  to  aid  ye." 

"Eimer  is  me  name,  daughter  o'  him  that  was 
Duach  o'  the  Ford,"  says  she,  bendin'  to  fill  her 


THE  KING  O'  THE  THREE  WINDS    223 

jar  with  clear  wather.  "An'  a  good  warrior 
was  that  same,  that  sthruck  no  man  from  be- 
hind, even  when  it  was  his  own  slave  rebellin  V 

"Then  shall  yer  wrong  be  righted,"  says  the 
ould  man.  "Choose  for  yerself  whether  by  me 
dog  or  me  man,  here. ' ' 

Eimer  looked  at  him,  doubtin',  an'  her  eyes 
grew  dark  with  anger.  "  'Tis  mockin'  me  ye 
are,"  says  she.  "I  see  no  dog  followin'  ye;  an' 
what  can  a  lad  like  yon  do  against  the  King  o' 
the  Three  Winds?  If  he  have  the  power  in  his 
arm  to  slay  even  the  meanest  kerne  that  slinks 
by  the  gates  o'  Curigh  Mor,  'tis  debtor  to  him 
I'll  be ;  but  sthrong  men  are  they  that  ride  in  his 
train." 

"What  shall  be  done  shall  ye  see,"  says  the 
ould  man,  flashin'  fire  like  the  sun  on  steel  from 
the  deep  eyes  o'  him.  "Now  lead  us  to  Curigh 
Mor,  an'  leave  yer  fearin'  for  us." 

Wide  were  the  eyes  of  Eimer  to  see  the 
wather  o'  the  ford  dhraw  back  to  let  the  two 
pass  dhry  shod.  Thremblin'  came  on  her,  an' 
silent  she  led  the  two  up  the  path  to  the  castle. 
Yet  at  the  gate  she  waited  a  bit,  lookin'  from 
the  bent  ould  beggar  man,  worn  and  slow  step- 


224  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAG 

pin',  to  the  bright  youth,  richly  clad,  that  fol- 
lowed him  as  a  man  his  masther. 

"Betther  that  ye  come  no  farther,  riskin'  yer 
lives  for  a  servin'  maid,"  says  she.  "A  rough 
man  is  Gurigh  Mor." 

"Then  rougher  shall  he  find  us,"  says  the 
ould  man.  "Go  you  an'  tell  him  that  two 
sthrangers  crave  shelter  for  the  night." 

'Twas  before  the  main  gateway  they  were 
now,  an'  as  Eimer  slipped  in  away  from  them, 
it  seemed  to  Rodan  as  a  swirl  o'  mist  had 
wrapped  her  from  sight. 

"An'  what  for  an'  whatever  a  castle  may  this 
be?"  he  asked,  wondherin'  not  a  little  at  the 
quare  silence  all  round,  for  never  a  bird  sang  in 
any  tree,  nor  child  played  on  the  meadow  be- 
yant,  nor  chatter  o'  maids  an'  men  came  from 
the  courtyards  or  archways.  Only  a  dull  rushin' 
sound  o'  storm  far  underground  was  round 
them. 

"The  place  o'  one  not  to  be  trusted  with 
power  above  that  o '  men  that  were  his  masthers 
afore,"  says  the  ould  man,  gruff  an'  short. 

"An'  have  we  strength  to  cast  him  from  it?" 
cried  Rodan,  his  face  flusliin'  with  eagerness, 


THE  KING  0'  THE  THREE  WINDS    225 

an'  his  heart  hot  with  rage  at  Curigh  Mor  for 
layin'  heavy  hand  on  a  tender  lass  with  none  to 
guard  her. 

"Ay,  that  may  ye  do  alone.  Hearken  to  me, 
Eodan.  A  lad  are  ye  yet,  but  power  shall  be 
given  ye  if  yer  heart  fail  ye  not.  That  which  I 
lost  has  Curigh  Mor  found  an'  turned  to  evil 
uses.  One  chance  will  I  give  him  to  mend  his 
ways,  an'  if  he  refuse  me  that  which  is  me  own, 
then  do  ye  stand  forth  me  champion  an'  offer 
battle  to  all  who  come,  beginnin'  with  a  man  o' 
yer  own  years.  An'  the  power  of  each  man  ye 
overcome  shall  be  added  to  yer  own,  an'  a 
mighty  champion  shall  ye  be  held  afther.  But 
mind  this  through  the  battlin'.  All  in  all  is  it  to 
ye  that  ye  let  no  fear  come  nigh  yer  heart,  even 
though  a  giant  were  challengin'." 

An'  Eodan  nodded,  gay  an'  blithe  at  the 
words  o'  the  beggar  man.  Afther  a  minute 
more,  the  gate  opened,  an'  a  great  slouchin'  fel- 
low put  out  his  head. 

"What  seek  ye,  beggars,  at  the  door  o'  Curigh 
Mor,  the  mighty  King  o'  Three  Winds  that  work 
his  will  night  an'  day?"  says  he. 

"  'Tis  a  smith  I  am,"  says  the  ould  man,  "an' 


226  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

by  ill  fortune  I  was  afther  losin'  me  hammer. 
'Tis  seekin'  it  through  all  lands  I  am,  for  its 
mate  has  never  been  seen  far  nor  wide.  'Tis 
askin'  I'd  be  whether  Curigh  Mor  has  found 
it." 

"Come  in,"  says  the  gatekeeper.  So  in  they 
went,  an*  before  them  was  the  wide  courtyard. 
At  the  farther  side  stood  a  knot  o*  men,  an*  to 
them  the  gatekeeper  pointed. 

"Go  to  them,"  says  he.  "There  stands  Curigh 
Mor,  with  the  sthrongest  champions  o '  his  court. 
But  'tis  riskin  yer  ould  skin  an*  bones  ye  are. 
Better  for  ye  to  go  sound  an'  safe,  if  wantin' 
yer  hammer,  than  to  cross  the  King  o'  the  Three 
Winds." 

But  the  ould  smith  shook  off  the  hand  o'  the 
one  that  would  have  warned  him  baok,  an' 
beckoned  Rodan,  an*  together  they  passed 
across  the  open  space. 

Those  standin'  nigh  to  Curigh  Mor  laughed 
at  seeing  the  ould  bent  gaffer  hobblin'  along,  an' 
a  bright  young  lad,  that  was  yet  scarce  come  to 
man's  years,  comin'  afther  with  his  arm  filled 
with  rusty  chains.  But  a  chill  went  over  the 


THE  KING  0'  THE  THREE  WINDS    227 

heart  o'  Curigh  Mor,  an'  he  drew  his  rich  cloak 
closer  round  him. 

"What  seek  ye,  beardin'  the  King  o'  the 
Three  Winds? "  says  he. 

' '  The  help  o '  Curigh  Mor  to  give  me  back  that 
which  is  me  own,"  says  the  ould  smith. 

"An'  what  may  that  be?"  asked  Curigh  Mor, 
scowlin'  fierce  an'  angered  like. 

"Me  hammer,"  says  the  ould  beggar. 
"  'Twas  restin'  a  bit  from  me  forgin'  on  a  suit 
of  armour  I  was,  an'  let  it  slip  from  me  hand; 
an'  when  I  would  have  gone  back  to  me  work, 
'twas  gone ;  an'  ever  since  have  I  been  searchin' 
vainly  for  it.  A  gift  from  a  mighty  hand  it  was, 
with  powers  like  none  other;  for  glowin'  with 
fire  is  it,  an'  needs  no  guidin'  for  doin'  its  work. 
Golden  is  its  handle,  an'  wrought  with  sthrange 
runes  an'  spells.'* 

He  looked  waitin'  at  CurigK  Mor,  that 
phouted  rough  like — 

' '  Nay,  be  off  with  yees  1  I  know  naught  o '  yer 
hammer ! ' ' 

"A  fine  thing,  that,  for  any  to  be  afther  givin' 
to  a  beggar  man,"  chuckled  a  quare  bit  of  a 
dwarf  that  was  sittin'  cross-legged  nigh  them, 


228          (     THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

"  Maybe  ye've  stolen  Ms  cloak  o'  silver  cloth, 
forbye  Ms  hammer,  Cnrigh  Mor;  to  speak 
naught  o*  Ms  fine  suit  o'  bronze  armour  an'  the 
tore  o*  wrought  gold  from  Ms  neck." 

An'  while  all  round  were  shaMn'  an*  laughin' 
at  the  angered  face  o'  the  ould  smith,  Rodan 
was  keepin'  eye  on  Curigh  Mor.  A  tall,  dark, 
heavy  man  was  he,  an'  with  lowerin'  brows  an7 
great  black  beard  like  many  o'  those  nigh.  An' 
bein'  as  it  was  warm  in  the  sun,  Rodan  was  won- 
dherin'  how  it  was  that  he  kept  Ms  cloak  so 
tight  held  to  him.  An'  as  he  was  lookin',  the 
ould  smith  raised  his  hand  with  the  fourth 
chain,  an'  the  corner  o'  Curigh  Mor's  mantle 
blew  aside.  An'  beneath  Rodan  saw,  hangin' 
from  his  belt,  a  hammer,  with  handle  o '  wrought 
gold;  an'  the  head  o'  that  same  was  glowin'  like 
a  coal  o'  fire  in  the  wind. 

Never  waitin'  to  think  what  might  come, 
Rodan  sprang  forward  an'  struck  Curigh  Mor 
on  the  breast. 

* '  'Tis  a  false  thaf e  ye  are ! ' '  says  he,  fearless. 
"Give  back  the  hammer,  lest  evil  come  on  ye  an' 
all  in  yer  ill-gotten  castle.  The  son  of  a  warrior 
am  I,  an'  sister's  son  to  Mahon  o'  Rosnaree,  an' 


THE  KING  O'  THE  THREE  WINDS    229 

no  man's  man  bnt  Ms,  that  was  once  aided  in 
need  by  this  man  ye 're  afther  showin'  scorn  to. 
An*  every  man  in  yer  court  do  I  challenge  to 
fight  for  it,  takin'  one  o'  me  own  years  first,  an' 
then  one  sthronger — till  I  come  to  yerself, 
Curigh  Mor,  that  was  born  no  king,  but  thrall 
of  a  betther  man  nor  stands  jeerin'  by  ye.  An' 
the  hammer  shall  ye  return  to  him  that  owns  it 
by  right;  an'  Eimer,  daughter  o'  Duach  o'  the 
Ford,  shall  ye  free,  an'  give  gold  in  king's 
measure  for  forcin'  her  to  serve  the  cowards 
that  serve  ye,  thrall  an*  traitor  an'  thafe!" 

Then  was  Curigh  Mor  ragin'  past  words.  He 
beckoned  to  a  young  fightin'  man  that  stood  by, 
an'  pointed  to  Eodan.  An'  'twas  few  words 
were  needed  there.  Swords  were  out,  an'  silent 
were  all  as  the  wind  o'  yester  morn — while 
clash!  went  steel  on  steel.  An'  before  Curigh 
Mor  had  fair  taken  breath  to  watch  the  out- 
comin',  sure  Eodan  had  sthruck  down  young 
Seumas,  an'  had  him  lyin*  at  his  mercy  on  the 
rough  stones.  Dark  wrath  was  in  the  face  o'  the 
King  o '  the  Three  Winds  in  that  hour. 

The  ould  smith  signed  quick  to  Bodan  to 
hearken. 


230  THE  SONS  0'  CORMAC 

"Hang  the  chains  loose  on  yer  arm,"  says 
he,  whisperin'  low,  "and  if  a  wind  sweeps  over 
ye,  cast  a  chain  at  it  an'  take  no  more  heed,  for 
all  will  go  well." 

Bodan  nodded,  light-hearted  an*  full  o'  cour- 
age, an'  stepped  out  to  meet  the  next  man  that 
offered.  An'  'twas  one  broad-shouldhered  an' 
scarred  with  much  battlin'  that  met  him — for 
many  o'  the  weaker  o'  Curigh  Mor's  men  began 
slippin'  off  quiet  like,  fearin'  to  be  called  on  to 
fight  in  an  ill  quarrel. 

Now  the  strength  o '  two  was  in  Bodan  's  arm, 
yet  was  he  pressed  hard.  An'  as  the  smith 
watched,  sure,  one  pulled  at  his  arm  from  be- 
hind, an'  'twas  Eimer,  her  face  white  with 
dreadin'  what  might  come  to  the  lad. 

"Look  to  Curigh  Mor,"  says  she.  "  'Tia 
turnin'  to  the  south  he  is.  The  wind  '11  be 
afther  workin'  his  wicked  will." 

"Wait  an'  see,"  counselled  the  smith.  "Be 
ready,  too,  an'  when  ye  see  a  chain  fall  from  the 
hand  o'  the  lad  that  fights  yer  battle  an'  mine, 
run  ye  quick  an'  bring  it  to  me,  fearin'  naught." 

Then  Curigh  Mor  pulled  the  hammer  from  his 
girdle,  thinkin'  none  saw — an'  called  on  the 


THE  KING  0'  THE  THREE  WINDS    231 

south  wind  to  dhrive  off  the  beggars.  But  as  it 
swept  up  the  courtyard,  Rodan,  never  ceasin' 
his  sword  playin',  threw  the  first  o'  the  chains 
from  him-—  an '  sudden  all  was  still,  the  chain 
lyin'  in  the  dust  an'  the  scarred  warrior  by  it. 
Eimer  hastened  quick  an'  brought  it  to  its  right 
owner,  that  grasped  it  an'  held  it  with  firm  grip, 
sayin'  words  that  none  could  make  out. 

When  Curigh  Mor  saw  that  the  power  o '  the 
south  wind  hindhered  Eodan  never  a  bit,  he 
swift  loosed  the  east  wind  and  the  west  wind, 
an'  like  a  whirlwind  they  howled  as  they  met. 
Scarce  knew  Rodan  where  to  turn,  but  out  he 
flung  the  chains,  an'  the  winds  sank,  masthered. 
An'  Curigh  Mor  saw  his  warriors  an'  his 
sthrong  fightin'  men  slinkin'  out  o'  the  gate,  not 
wishin'  to  risk  battlin'  with  that  lad.  Losin'  all 
wisdom,  he  dhrew  out  the  hammer  that  he  'd  so 
far  hidden  close,  an*  whirled  it  above  his  head, 
meanin'  to  beat  down  the  young  hero  that  had 
named  him  for  what  he  was.  But  as  the  great 
hammer,  glowin'  an'  sparklin',  left  his  hand, 
flyin'  through  the  air,  the  ould  beggar  whistled 
sharp  an'  shrill,  an'  like  a  bird  swervin'  in  flight 
the  hammer  went  straight  into  the  knotted  hand 


232  THE  SONS  O'  CORMAC 

o '  Len  the  Smith,  that  had  sought  it  over  many 
lands. 

Sure,  a  hush  o'  death  was  there  in  the  court- 
yard, aji'  Curigh  Mor  covered  his  false  head 
with  his  arm,  while  Eodan  stood  wondherin' 
that  none  came  against  him. 

High  in  air  flashed  the  hammer,  held  in  the 
sthrong  grasp  that  knew  it  well.  An '  in  place  o ' 
the  rags  that  had  covered  the  ould  beggar,  ar- 
mour o'  wrought  bronze  an'  a  cloak  o'  silver 
cloth,  an '  a  tore  o '  fine  gold  wrought  by  no  mor- 
tal smith  glittered  in  the  noon  sun.  Once  he 
swung  his  arm,  shakin'  wide  the  chains,  an'  the 
four  winds  swept  out  from  him  on  every  side, 
an'  the  walls  o'  Curigh  Mor's  castle  were  scat- 
thered  an'  flyin'  down  the  valley  side. 

Again  he  whirled  the  hammer,  an'  Curigh 
Mor  an'  his  dwarf,  that  were  all  left  o'  the 
proud  company,  shrunk  down  to  no  bigger  nor 
yer  finger,  an'  scutthered  away  an'  hid  in  the 
leaves. 

"  'Tis  not  for  little  men  to  be  afther  showin' 
discourtesy  to  sthrangers,"  says  Len,  laughin'. 

Then,  towerin'  high  above  the  forest  trees, 
where  the  birds  were  singin'  wild  an'  free,  he 


THE  KING  0'  THE  THREE  WINDS    233 

bent  an'  caught  up  Bodan  an'  Eimer,  an'  back 
he  strode  across  the  land,  like  the  comin'  of  a 
thunder-cloud,  never  settin'  them  down  till  he 
saw,  far  below,  the  great  dun  o'  Mahon,  chief- 
tain in  Eosnaree. 

Sure,  those  within  heard  the  growlin'  o' 
storm,  but  naught  they  saw  save  a  dark  mist 
risin'  from  where  stood  Kodan,  cheerin'  Eimer 
with  brave  words. 

In  the  flashin'  o'  lightnin'  from  above  came  a 
long  line  o'  little  men  in  green,  carryin'  gold 
an'  rich  gifts  for  the  daughter  o'  Duach,  to  the 
hall  where  sat  Mahon — but  never  more  did  Len 
the  Smith  come  wandherin'  to  Rosnaree, 
seekin'  aught  lost  by  lookin'  too  long  at  heroes. 

["An'  now  be  off  with  yees  for  the  last  time,  for 
I've  never  a  tale,  nor  a  thought  of  a  tale, 
left  in  me  poor  ould  brain.  'Tis  meself 
ye've  blaiidandhered  out  of  all  I  ever  knew, 
an'  me  mother  before  me — so  out  an'  pack 
an'  seek  fortune  for  yer selves  by  an'  be- 
yant  the  fine  school  ye 're  off  to  the  morn's 
mornin'."] 

THE   END 


A     000  033  026 


